A brief moment

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Nighttime in our community hospital was something to be dreaded when I was a resident.  It meant I was on overnight call, following a regular day’s work.  The hospital emptied of the day staff and visitors, leaving limited lab and imaging services, fewer nurses, a couple of physicians and emergency room staff–tag, you’re “it”.  When the pager went off, if it were the emergency room, that wasn’t good—most likely a new admission, possibly unstable, requiring at least an hour for a thorough assessment, plan and documentation. Multiple admissions were “hits”.  It could be a nurse calling for any patient in the hospital, likely unfamiliar to me, for something aggravatingly simple (you woke me for that?), or something quite dire. Did I need to get out of bed to attend to the issue, or manage by phone?  Did I need to call for backup from another resident or attending, which involved waking them up and risking their ire?  If there were a woman in labor, it usually spelled long hours and the anxiety of two lives at risk if we missed a problem.  Was there any chance I could get enough sleep to be able to function the next day?   My mind played games as I tried to sleep in the hospital’s converted nun’s cells; I would physically jump, my heart pounding, with each pager call.

Trudging through the darkened halls it was a struggle to overcome my own grumpy fatigue mixed with mild terror.  It was clear that I was not a night person.  Then there was a gradual change as the O-dark-hundred hours waned and the day staff reappeared.  My circadian rhythm kicked in, allowing me to join the morning rounds, report on the night before, and find a way to finish the rest of the day ahead.

Most of the hospital work was done in rooms without a view but coming down from the nun cells/call rooms on the top floor, it was possible to look out a window to the east.  Sometimes I would stop there in the early morning turning of the earth, captivated by the line of the Cascade mountains and the reddening sky before the sun appeared.  In that quiet and beautiful alone moment I could breathe, wonder, and find space to carry on.

Whispers of the Valley Breeze

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As dawn approaches, the silent night sky fades away,
Fresh and gentle like petals caressed by a breeze.
Women are waking from their dreams,
With determination and confidence to face the new day.

Like cherry blossoms blooming in Japan,
Women’s power is also revealed here.
They symbolize the courage and beauty of life,
And in this new dawn, they will sparkle more brilliantly.

As light as the morning mist,
Women gather wisdom and strength on their way forward,
Creatively changing the world in their unique way,
Making it full of genuine equality and respect.

Pure like Japanese maids,
Women break free from worldly constraints and restrictions,
Creating their own legends with unwavering faith.

In this rapidly changing world,
Women shoulder more responsibilities and missions,
But they never stop exploring and growing,
Moving towards a brighter future.

Let us together call for the coming of dawn,
Carrying the power and wisdom of women,
Making this world more beautiful and equal,
Fighting for equality, never defeated!

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What’s So Special About a Sunrise?

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My mother-in-law and her sister loved taking pictures of sunrises.  Both women shared many of them on Facebook or by email or text from their ipads; a very techie thing for a couple women in their 80’s.  They obviously felt sunrises are much more special than I thought them to be.  I’m more of a sunset person; you know that moment at the end of a day that says you’ve survived another one, now go celebrate with wine!  Sunrises were just a warning I was going to soon need to get out of bed!

My mother in law photographed a sunrise nearly every morning from her east-facing 9th floor balcony.  Many of her sisters were taken on a beach near Cabo San Lucas, Mexico.  Many of them included her, with and without others, facing a new-born sun, posed with arms raised as if worshiping Ra – the Egyptian Sun God.  Ra, supreme to all other gods, was worshiped as creator of everything.  His daily path through the heavens represented the cycle of life, death and rebirth.  When he fell below the western horizon in the evening, he was believed to have died and entered the realm of the dead.  But, every dawn he was reborn and his majestic rising gave new light and life to everything on earth encouraging all to flourish along with him.

There were so many sunrise pictures I began to think of them much as Ronald Reagan once described the redwoods, claiming once you’d seen one, you’d seen them all.  The sunrises were, of course, different in many ways, but the sheer volume of them overwhelmed any uniqueness to my mind so I cared little about seeing more of them.

Once we stayed at the house in Cabo where the sister took her sunrise pictures.  As a lark, we decided to take one of our own on that beach to share.  So in the predawn hours we dragged ourselves from the comforts of bed early enough to get down the hill and onto the beach before sunrise.

It was dark, and quiet – everyone with any sense was still asleep.  The air, while not exactly crisp, since it was July, was the coolest it would be all day.  With camera and tripod in hand we started down the path to the beach.  A somewhat treacherous hike in the dark as it is a steep, twisting dirt path littered with ruts, slippery sand, loose gravel and rocks.

On the beach, our quiet is broken only by the sound of waves crashing softly onto the beach in a regular, never changing rhythm, a constant since the beginning of time.  The waves had erased all the footprints from yesterday leaving only ours, freshly made on the empty beach like modern day Robinsons Caruso.  This reminds us that the events of yesterday are passed, they are gone and cannot be changed – only remembered.

We walk along, facing east so we will miss none of our sunrise.  The eastern sky began to lighten, faintly outlining the mountains around Mazatlan, Mexico across the still-dark Sea of Cortez.  The birth of the new sun was imminent, its arrival announced by streaks of golden light streaming into the grey sky, highlighting a few clouds, hinting at the dramatic display soon to come.  We stop to watch as the sun slowly peeks over the edge then bursts forth illuminating us, and the world, with its light, warming us with its heat.

The blank slate of a smooth, clean beach combined with the rising sun proclaimed the gift of a new day and the promise of a fresh beginning, so inspiring it is easy to imagine it accompanied by music; a rousing Phillip Souza march or the Sunrise movement from the Grand Canyon Suite.  Slowly, involuntarily – almost unconsciously – we too raise our arms overhead in greeting and praise to the Great Ra.

I forgot to take our picture!  But walking back to the house, we have a new-found understanding of what inspired all those sunrise pictures.  Our souls are as refreshed as are our bodies following a nights’ rest.  Our spirits are renewed and we are eager to start afresh our new day rich with opportunity, alert to new experiences and secure in the promise that it will rise again tomorrow.

Doctors Hospital and the Very Sharp Cheese Plane

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Doctors Hospital and the Very Sharp Cheese Plane

Until it closed in 2004 and the building was razed to make way for a new luxury high rise,  Doctors Hospital stood on East End Avenue two blocks from our apartment.

Opened in 1929 as a small, private hospital,  originally for maternity cases,  it was soon favored by celebrities and over the years counted Marilyn Monroe,  Michael Jackson,  and Eugene O’Neill among its patients,  while also serving our upper eastside neighborhood.  (See The Gurney)

One weekend some years ago  I was serving my family lunch when I went back to the kitchen to cut some slices from a large wedge of Jarlsburg.  But the cheese plane was very sharp,  I was careless,  and along with the cheese I sliced off the tip of my finger.

I wrapped my bloody digit in tissues and we all rushed out of the apartment and hurried down the block to the Doctors Hospital ER,  my son carrying my fingertip in the expectation that a surgeon would need it to stitch back on.

Then while my family sat in the waiting room,  I was ushered in to see the doctor.

“The skin will grow back and your finger will heal perfectly.”   he assured me,  tossing my useless fingertip into the tras

Relieved,  and with my finger nicely bandaged,  I went back to the waiting room where I’d left my husband and son –  but they were no where in sight.  Rather annoyed,  I walked home and found them sitting at the table eating.

“How could you leave me in the hospital with my severed fingertip!”  I demanded.

“Well ”,  said my husband between bites,  “since we couldn’t do anything about your finger and we were hungry,  we came home to finish lunch.”

“But don’t worry Mom”,  my son reassured me,  “before we sliced the Jarlsburg we washed your blood off the cheese plane.”

I thought that was pretty cheesy.

– Dana Susan Lehrman