I have been contemplating writing this post for 3 weeks now. I don't know why I want to write this, nor do I understand why I don't. For the most part, I have tried to keep this blog about my ups and downs in the residency and have used my children only as examples in posts, as needed. At least that is what I have tried. You be the judge.
Yet, my absence here since January is, for the most part is due to my children, specifically my son. As a working mother, I have many things that make my life rich and expand my horizons beyond my home and family. That being said, I have never been more aware of my guilt and sorrow than in the last 3 months. I have had days when I have ached to not work and to be available to him. I can't say that he feels the same way because he is almost 8 years old, and this is all he knows: me working. There is no other reality for him. His mom is a physician and she works. I, however, have access to an alternate reality. My daughter, who is 10 years old now, knew me as a stay-at-home mom for the first 2 years of her life, and although I had a very rough start with her, as a new mother, I tend to romanticize the era more than I should. Funny that I am aware of that, yet in these last 3 months, I have had bouts of nostalgia and longings for what-ifs, for my son.
For the most part, what I do for a living brings me joy and makes me feel good about myself. I can't remember many days when I felt miserable. Annoyed, frustrated, and tired, for sure, but never miserable. It's safe to assume that I have been fairly happy with what I do, and still am. But now I wish that I had the leeway of being at his school for more than 30 minutes in the mornings, when it's my turn to drop them or had the freedom to go to be in the classroom, when I felt like it. I am not sure if that would make a difference for the challenges that he faces daily with learning, or if I had never worked, would he have developed dyslexia? The rational, scientific side of me knows that he would have because that is the reality of dyslexia, but the emotional part of me feels the sorrow. Kind of sorrow, only a mother can feel, when she feels inadequate.
I always felt a natural pull towards the mothers under my care, who struggled with special needs children. There was this connection with them, and I had to be very mindful of it, so that the treatment wouldn't be compromised by confusion about their feelings vs mine. Maybe because I related to a mother's frustration, when her daughter couldn't read despite extra help at school and home, because after the clinic was over, I was that mother. Or maybe I felt bad for the mother, who didn't know why her son couldn't sit still and had to constantly move, and questioned whether he had ADHD, because I knew what that felt like. I also knew that there were no easy answers, I could give them or to myself. Until I found out last month that there indeed was an answer. Having a child with dyslexia and sensory sensitivity, even though unbeknownst to me until now, has given me a different perspective on things. The simple logistics of how much work it takes to navigate the school system are mind-boggling. I have a new appreciation for the word "overwhelmed."
But I have learned that I don't know much about learning disabilities, even being a psychiatrist, I don't. I have started reading more, and I have started asking simple questions to my patients. When I see a struggling patient, or when patients tell me about how awful their school was, because they were stupid, and couldn't read or write, I try to get more information from them, which I wouldn't have thought to do before. While I am aware that I am not diagnosing people with learning disabilities after the fact, nor am I trained to do so, I am now interested in knowing their strengths and weaknesses, to think more broadly about them.
Having a son with dyslexia has opened my mind to the struggles many of my patients talked about previously, and I didn't know how to navigate those. Necessity is the mother of invention, and my need to help my own son has pushed me to invent means to educate myself, which in turn, tunes me more keenly into my patient's childhood and even adult struggles.
I can't stop working because that is not the answer, nor will it help my son, but I do know that the only way to live with this is - to walk behind him and not in front of him. He has shown me how I am enough the way I am, by taking his diagnosis in stride, by sitting through relentless testing, and always coming out shining at the other end. He has touched so many people who evaluated him, with his tenacity and his teachers with how willing he is to work hard. If he has given me one gift from our struggle over the last many years and journey over the last 5 months, it's the gift of knowledge.
What I do for a living is not stagnant, nor does it exist in a bubble outside of my life. What happens in my life directly affects my work. My wish to work, my fantasy to not work, and my willingness to live somewhere in between, because isn't that the elusive balance, we as women always talk about?
So here is to embracing my motherhood guilt, with my son's affirmation that I am enough the way I am and letting him be the best he can be, with what he is. If he can love me with all of my work and for all the times that I feel like I wasn't enough, then I need to do the same for myself because there is no greater gift than to be loved and accepted the way you are.
Yet, my absence here since January is, for the most part is due to my children, specifically my son. As a working mother, I have many things that make my life rich and expand my horizons beyond my home and family. That being said, I have never been more aware of my guilt and sorrow than in the last 3 months. I have had days when I have ached to not work and to be available to him. I can't say that he feels the same way because he is almost 8 years old, and this is all he knows: me working. There is no other reality for him. His mom is a physician and she works. I, however, have access to an alternate reality. My daughter, who is 10 years old now, knew me as a stay-at-home mom for the first 2 years of her life, and although I had a very rough start with her, as a new mother, I tend to romanticize the era more than I should. Funny that I am aware of that, yet in these last 3 months, I have had bouts of nostalgia and longings for what-ifs, for my son.
For the most part, what I do for a living brings me joy and makes me feel good about myself. I can't remember many days when I felt miserable. Annoyed, frustrated, and tired, for sure, but never miserable. It's safe to assume that I have been fairly happy with what I do, and still am. But now I wish that I had the leeway of being at his school for more than 30 minutes in the mornings, when it's my turn to drop them or had the freedom to go to be in the classroom, when I felt like it. I am not sure if that would make a difference for the challenges that he faces daily with learning, or if I had never worked, would he have developed dyslexia? The rational, scientific side of me knows that he would have because that is the reality of dyslexia, but the emotional part of me feels the sorrow. Kind of sorrow, only a mother can feel, when she feels inadequate.
I always felt a natural pull towards the mothers under my care, who struggled with special needs children. There was this connection with them, and I had to be very mindful of it, so that the treatment wouldn't be compromised by confusion about their feelings vs mine. Maybe because I related to a mother's frustration, when her daughter couldn't read despite extra help at school and home, because after the clinic was over, I was that mother. Or maybe I felt bad for the mother, who didn't know why her son couldn't sit still and had to constantly move, and questioned whether he had ADHD, because I knew what that felt like. I also knew that there were no easy answers, I could give them or to myself. Until I found out last month that there indeed was an answer. Having a child with dyslexia and sensory sensitivity, even though unbeknownst to me until now, has given me a different perspective on things. The simple logistics of how much work it takes to navigate the school system are mind-boggling. I have a new appreciation for the word "overwhelmed."
But I have learned that I don't know much about learning disabilities, even being a psychiatrist, I don't. I have started reading more, and I have started asking simple questions to my patients. When I see a struggling patient, or when patients tell me about how awful their school was, because they were stupid, and couldn't read or write, I try to get more information from them, which I wouldn't have thought to do before. While I am aware that I am not diagnosing people with learning disabilities after the fact, nor am I trained to do so, I am now interested in knowing their strengths and weaknesses, to think more broadly about them.
Having a son with dyslexia has opened my mind to the struggles many of my patients talked about previously, and I didn't know how to navigate those. Necessity is the mother of invention, and my need to help my own son has pushed me to invent means to educate myself, which in turn, tunes me more keenly into my patient's childhood and even adult struggles.
I can't stop working because that is not the answer, nor will it help my son, but I do know that the only way to live with this is - to walk behind him and not in front of him. He has shown me how I am enough the way I am, by taking his diagnosis in stride, by sitting through relentless testing, and always coming out shining at the other end. He has touched so many people who evaluated him, with his tenacity and his teachers with how willing he is to work hard. If he has given me one gift from our struggle over the last many years and journey over the last 5 months, it's the gift of knowledge.
What I do for a living is not stagnant, nor does it exist in a bubble outside of my life. What happens in my life directly affects my work. My wish to work, my fantasy to not work, and my willingness to live somewhere in between, because isn't that the elusive balance, we as women always talk about?
So here is to embracing my motherhood guilt, with my son's affirmation that I am enough the way I am and letting him be the best he can be, with what he is. If he can love me with all of my work and for all the times that I feel like I wasn't enough, then I need to do the same for myself because there is no greater gift than to be loved and accepted the way you are.
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