Brothers

I spent my entire childhood and in fact much of my early adult life haunted by the constant admonition that, were I unable or unwilling to serve forth a male heir from the seed of my loins, the fine Linford line of the Ab Shaw family name would die with me, the last male descendant. And so it was to my great relief that on January 28th, 2009, we brought Jack kicking and screaming into this world, the first great-grandson of Jupe Shaw.

And yet, for the last three years I have been chilled by the burden I must one day place on his shoulders, that he too must likewise go forth and prosper in order to sustain the Shaw name. I thought of this again this morning, home from work with a sick Caroline, as I stumbled upon that tremendous Montana Presbyterian Flyfisherman's tale - A River Runs Through It. As I watched, Caroline engrossed in tormenting the dog, I witnessed anew the relationship of the two brothers that is sketched so clearly by Norman Maclean. I saw their coming of age, as they fish, and fight, and have great adventures together, and come back home and hug their dear mother. I knew that I would miss Doc's ultrasound this afternoon, but I was struck at the time by a sense that this new one would be a boy.

And so it shall be, for as Kim returned home to share the news, we told Jack he was going to have a little brother. "Neat," he said, grinning from ear to ear. "Can I have a brownie too?"

Good Night, Chesty Puller!

Jack hummed along with me tonight during my adagio rendition of The Marine's Hymn at bedtime. Happy 236th, Mother Green!

A Father's Fear

I am afraid that I have made a great and terrible realization about my daughter - such a turn of fate as is a righteous shock to the genteel sensibilities of my family and the generations that have come before us. Caroline - sweet, dear Caroline - how it pains me to say this:

I think you have the makings a Dook fan.

How do I know? Your recent propensity to flop to the ground and wail at even the slightest physical touch...

Please, please don't continue to do this. Think instead of your father, and your father's father, and his father before him, and return to your legacy that is that fine shade of Carolina Blue. You just need to learn how to suck it up and take a little body contact from your brother and the dog.

Herding Monkeys

Forget that Super Bowl commercial about the challenges of herding cats.. trying to keep these two little monkeys on a straight line tonight was durn-near impossible. The evening's draw of limitless candy was just too great.



My favorite moment? When Jack dutifully picks up the second bucket and says "Nope, Dean not coming. We have to carry all this candy.." [0:29]

My little grump

Because I have been accused of having perfect kids, meet my little grump we affectionately refer to as the honey badger...

My day today

As I sit here, having just put the kids to bed, with a moment to reflect on my day, it occurs to me at just how unique my life is.  Sadly, I think most days I just take it for granted what I do on an average day. Scratch that, what I am allowed (and asked) to do.  Today is not unlike the others but there were a few poignant moments that really have me feeling awed and blessed and exhausted to be who I am.

6:15am - The day begins with trying to get showered and ready with Jackson running into the bathroom to hug my leg and say "Hi Mommy. I like your robe. I'm awake now" and Caroline removing every single item out of my bathroom drawer and slyly taking into the other bathroom for "safe keeping." Thus, the mousse-less frizzy hairdo I donned today.

7:30am - Drop the kids off at daycare and stop in the hall to look at a rash of a friend's baby girl.

7:45am - Sit down at my desk at work to clean off the paperwork and labs that came in overnight, including a death certificate, a few handicap stickers, 3 new patient transfer records, multiple med requests, and a discharge summary of a dear patient just released from the hospital with significantly worsening dementia, now finally into the nursing home I've been trying to arrange to no avail for 6 months.

8:30am - Start seeing patients.  A few physicals where the patients are completely naked and somehow, despite everyone commenting that it should, it just doesn't phase me.  In my exam rooms, a penis or a breast is no different than a nose or a foot.  And no, prostate exams and pap smears don't gross me out because, again, it's just like looking up their nose to me. A hip injection, an abscess drainage, a trigger point injection, admitting a man to the hospital in congestive heart failure, talking through a 78 year old women wanting to leave her abusive husband, and schmoozing with 3 drug reps round out my morning.

12:30p - Call three patients to discuss their new diagnosis of terminal cancer.  One was a 50ish man with stage 3 lung cancer that is the picture of health and found after he came in for what he thought was simple heartburn, a morbidly obese 60ish woman with uterine cancer that is inoperable (and thus incurable) due to her size, and a 70ish woman with ovarian cancer found when she came in for what she thought was going to be her gall bladder.  

1:15p - Lunch with the Most Annoying Drug Rep on the surface of the Earth.

1:30p - Finish morning charts and call a few patients about their xrays from the morning that including 1 pneumonia, 2 non-pneumonias, 1 broken rib, and a foot fracture.

1:45pm - Jump back in to seeing patients. Five physicals (whew) including one on the nurse that helped deliver my daughter and 2 teenagers that ended up being rather entertaining visits. The 14yr old boy has gotten into drugs and sex and the parents (both of whom came with him) wanted him drug tested and STD tested.  They wanted me to give me "the facts" in a "clear and frank and scary way."  So, I rolled up my sleeves and did what I do best: be frank.  At first, he was flippant and stubborn and the typical know-it-all teenage boy.  But, once I got to the part about his penis looking like a cauliflower from genital warts or that it could altogether just stop working if he continued to smoke cigarettes and pot (ok, maybe I exaggerated the timeline on that one slightly), he was sitting upright at attention and much more interested in what I had to say. His sister, the 12 year old, was equally entertaining.  When I asked her if she knew how a woman gets pregnant she replied, "Of course. You put the banana in the coconut and then there's a baby."

5pm - Call an 83 year old patient about his dangerous heart arrhythmia picked up on 24 hour monitoring but try to explain to him that he is not a surgical candidate for an implantable pacemaker and there's nothing else to do about it but just avoid the medications we can and hope it behaves.

5:30p - Pick up my two adorable children from daycare. Caroline was riding around in a wagon when I got there with 4 other boys her age, playing whack a mole with their heads and laughing hysterically about it while Jack was running around the playground pretending to fly.  Since Matilda is at work late tonight, we stopped at Panera for dinner and I watched for 30minutes while they shared (without so much as a whisper of an argument) a very large M&M cookie, dividing up the M&M pieces for Jack and the cookie part for Caroline.

7pm - Ride home. Caroline starts to whine and Jack says "No no, Sissy. It's not the time to cry."  She replies with something resembling "Forget you, I'll cry if I want to."  He then very quickly responds with a series of phrases "No, Ma'am. You do not tell me no. I tell you no.  It is not nice to do that. Crying is for night time. Not now.  No, Ma'am."  I didn't know whether to be proud or cringe.  My son is turning into me.

7:30p - Everyone into pjs, we read stories on the floor, laugh about Little Bunny Fru-Fru turning us all into Goons, and all go to bed without so much as a peep.  And as I walk out of Jack's room and turn out the light he says, "Night night, Mommy. I love you."



In the words of my son, "I had a great day but I'm tired now.  I will have sweet dreams.  Nite nite."

Fav Photog

Courtesy of the Matilda's favorite photographer, the lovely and talented Rachel Garrison:*

We spent a few hours in Southern Pines galloping around the incredible spread of the Weymouth House gardens. Enjoy the full photo slide show here.

*Ok, I admit that I felt a little bit like Tyra on ANTM when I pulled out that line..

Five

Five years. Five people. I attribute all of our success to you, Doc. I would say that our wedding seems like it was just yesterday, but the truth is that we have managed to squeeze so much life into the last five years. And every new day brings the best of the best.

Call it kismet, or just the brilliance of Pandora - I heard this song on the radio this morning on the way to work, and I realized that it is exactly about us. Or, rather, it is about me, and how hopeless my life would be without you in it.

I'd rather sleep in a box like a bum on the street
Than a fine feather bed without your little ol' cold feet
And I'd rather be deaf, dumb, and stone blind
Than to know that your mornings will never be mine 

And I'd rather die young than to live without you
I'd rather go hungry than eat lonesome stew
You know it's once in a lifetime and it won't come again
It's here and it's gone on a magnolia wind 

I'd rather not walk through the garden again
If I can't catch your scent on a magnolia wind 

Well if it ever comes time that it comes time to go
Sis' pack up your fiddle, Sis' pack up your bow
If I can't dance with you then I won't dance at all
I'll just sit this one out with my back to the wall 

I'd rather not hear pretty music again
If I can't hear your fiddle on a magnolia wind 

If I can't catch your scent on a magnolia wind

If he's not on your radar, Guy Clark writes some fantastic songs, banging them out one at a time on his workbench, putting on the shine and moving on to the next work of art.

Thank you for being my fiddler, baby - I'm having the time of my life with you, Jack, Caroline, and whoever this new person is going to be.

Lessons Learned

mortified is a form of: mor·ti·fy verb /ˈmôrtəˌfī/  mortified, past participle; mortified, past tense; mortifies, 3rd person singular present; mortifying, present participle Cause (someone) to feel embarrassed, ashamed, or humiliated\ - she was mortified to see her wrinkles in the mirror - she refused to accept this mortifying disgrace Subdue (the body or its needs and desires) by self-denial or discipline - return to heaven by mortifying the flesh (of flesh) Be affected by gangrene or necrosis - the cut in Henry's arm had mortified Stephen F. Shaw, Greensboro, NC at 7:32am on September 28, 2011 - "Stephen's facial expression was the very definition of mortified"

It was just like any other normal day, when I strolled into the Moses Cone Hospital daycare Wednesday morning to drop the kids off. This week in Jack's class, the theme is "camping" - which is good for several reasons, chief among them being that we are already planning to go camping this weekend and Jack can't stop talking about it form the time he gets out of bed in the morning to the time we read his "Camping Book 17 times before he goes to bed each night. So when the school calendar came home last week with Camping penciled in for this week, I knew we were in for a treat. 

Monday, the whiteboard outside his class requested that if any parent had a tent at home, would they please bring it to school so that the kids could more realistically conduct their camping play. Being the wonderful father that I am, I quickly recognized that this was a unique opportunity to participate and perhaps to make up for never really having brought a prop or other show and tell item to school despite frequent requests. Delinquent Dad, I am sure you are thinking - but this was my chance to really redeem myself in the eyes of Miss Joy and Miss Angela.

When I picked Jack up yesterday, he was talk talk talk about camping and the tent and we napped inside daddy - in the tent! Miss Angela sweetly handed him off and thanked me so much for bringing the tent, that the teachers got it set up just fine and the kids really enjoyed it. I was worried after I dropped it off that morning that maybe I should have set it up for them, and that perhaps they wouldn't be able to get it pitched and Jack would be disappointed and ridiculed for having the dumb father who brought a tent but didn't have the good graces to set it up for the poor children, so it languished in a cubby until 5 o'clock. However, this was not the case, and the kids had fun.

So much fun, in fact, that I decided to leave the tent at school on Tuesday night so they could play with it again on Wednesday. When I walked in this morning and dropped Jack off at his classroom, I mentioned to Miss Joy that I had left the tent in place and they were welcome to use it again if they wanted. In retrospect, the big grin that lit up her face at that point must have been hard for her to contain, but she walked over and in a somewhat softened tone asked if Angela had told me about the tent. Yes, I said, she said you got it set up all right and the kids enjoyed it. The grinning was even more pronounced at this point and I started to get nervous. No, she said, did she tell you what she found in it? And then I just squeaked out a pitiful What do you mean?

Joy continued: Well, when she got it set up, Angela crawled inside before we let the kids in to check out the inside. And when she came out she had a funny look on her face, and had stuffed something into her pocket, and she said Good thing the kids didn't find that first.

Oh my god. I am sure I am beet red at this point, although I am trying to stay calm. I am positive by now that she did not find the wrapper to a Clif Bar, or a book of matches, some other innocuous piece of trash. Joy is almost laughing so hard now that she can't even pronounce the word, although I am sure it started with a hard C. I am mumbling through apologies and remarks like Gosh, its been 4 years since I used that tent, how could that have happened. I mean, we have two kids, so how they came to be is somewhat obvious. I just wish the ancillary activities didn't have to be rehashed in quite this detail.

Joy is similarly beside herself right now, although more from the entertaining enjoyment that must characterize a revealing moment like this, and the irony that is present in the knowledge that this morsel of parent news has probably already spread among the entire daycare staff.

Little Rameses

Last weekend, despite the rain and the risk of harm posed by obnoxious Wahoowa fans in their pinpoint oxfords and striped bowties, the Big Ram and I brave the elements to take Jack to his first Tarheel Football game. While the girls were enjoying a relaxing a recharging weekend of rest at the beach, the big boys were bach-ing it Carolina-style.

I was amazed at how well he did - with the noise and the crowds and the lights and fireworks - nothing seemed to faze young Jack. Except for a brief halftime walk around the stadium and a chance to pet Rameses XVII , Jack stayed in his seat (and my seat, and Bud's seat, and Don's seat) and the three of four stairs adjacent to the seats, for the whole four quarters. A few sips of coke, a bag of graham crackers and some nachos, along with about 7 pom-poms, and he was in heaven.

Tarheels over the 'Hoos, I think he had a great time, judging by how many times since we got home that he has asked when we are going to the football game again. Trust me, I'm looking forward to many more seasons.

Tarheels over the 'Hoos, 28-17

September 12th

As I wrote yesterday, awakening to the bright blue skies of early Fall on September 12, 2001 was like entering an America reborn, if only for a few weeks or months. No agenda, no politics - just sympathy, sorrow, patriotism and pride, and thousands of American flags everywhere you looked.

I remember that most sports were cancelled that weekend but roared back in the weeks that followed in a moving tribute to those gone and those serving, as if the physical excellence and metaphorical combat on the football pitch and baseball diamond portended of righteous victory and redemption for our country. Remember when the Patriots won the Super Bowl that winter? Almost as if it was an omen of our enduring success.

Of course we have come far since those first heady days of 21st century America, and while our ideals still prevail as perhaps the highest and the very best of humankind across the reaches of the earth, we cannot gloss over serious and substantial underlying fissures within our society. Right and left, rich and poor, native and immigrant - we all share in some part of the conflict spectrum that threatens our collective and continued success.

I've flipped through various commemorative essays today, and a few choice pieces have caught my eye:

Michael Roth, the President of Wesleyan University writes about a lack of partisanship and its importance in making tribute: Ten Years After: Commemoration Without Agenda

[O]n this 10th anniversary of 9/11 let us also simply acknowledge the claim that our painful memories still have on us. Let us recognize with piety that we still carry the traces of those traumatic events with us, and that we acknowledge their importance to us without trying to use them. Let us commemorate, if only for a few moments, without agenda.

I think that is a very appropriate tone to strike, and one that perhaps an older version of the popular media would have worked to protect a generation or two ago. If only there were more folks that were able to articulate things as well as Mr. Roth.

And this, from Gotham Gal, wife of VC investor / tech blogger Fred Wilson:

Going on the subway the day after the towers came down because I thought it was important that we didn't let this event change the way we live in our city. There were tons of cops down there. Josh went up to one of them and asked if they caught the bad guys yet. He answered, not yet son but we will, we will. 

A year later to the day Josh woke up that morning and the first thing he said when his eyes opened up was, did they ever catch that Osama Bin Laden guy?

There's stuff like this all over, as everyone reflects in their own way. What strikes me is the similarities among the many, several key themes that are repeated again and again - grief, normalcy, solidarity.

As much as I spent yesterday remembering September 11th, I want to remind myself to spend today - and the weeks the follow - remembering the sense of community and the sense of country we felt on September 12th and for much of the rest of that fall. People just seemed better that year, more in tune with the niceties of common life, reflective on the importance of enjoying and savoring the life of the living.

Elon alumnus Jason Boone '05, whose father Col. Canfield Boone was killed in the Pentagon on his day off, during the first month of Jason's freshman year, writes about the community that rose from those ashes, much like a phoenix, for the betterment of everyone involved:

I have to remind myself that 10 years is a significant chunk of time. Current freshmen would have been in third grade at the time of the attacks. For young people who may have been old enough to see the events, but too young to fully comprehend, I hope they believe people like me when we say, “Yes, that one day in September, we were very afraid.” But the next day, we feared a little less. Eventually, we even had hope. Laughter and happiness would return – much sooner than I dared to guess. The way people of vastly divergent backgrounds united was a truly stunning event to witness. The cliché of united resolve was not simply a unit of political currency. It was palpable in every gathering.

Well said, all.

Memorials

There was a lot of talk today, really all week long and going back well into the summer, about the process and importance of remembering September 11th. I share and cherish this process, for while my life was not directly changed by that day it certainly cast a new light and meaning on a future that was already well in motion for me at the time. Serving in a wartime Marine Corps was a decidedly different and more fulfilling venture for me than the stateside alternative, and that worldview and those experiences and relationships are things that I will carry with me for a long time.

We all have different ways of remembering things, different rituals we follow. Each of us in our own way, for this anniversary and many others both positive and negative in light, takes a time apart to memorialize certain things in our past. A few days after 9/11, I found online an MP3 audio file that was a full recording of the Howard Stern show from that morning (WTC coverage starts around 2h10m). Odd, you might think, that this would be my choice. But for September 11th, that is what I listen to each year to mark that memory. Some years, just a few minutes are enough to do the trick, and other times I sit up late in the night listening for hours on end as the bright blue morning unfolds and ages into afternoon, a lifetime or more crammed into a few hours.

For me, what I want to remember is the uncertainty, the unknowing dimension of the early morning - as it unfolded - that can never be fully recaptured. Forever more, the news coverage or documentary or TV special on 9/11 will not develop separate from what eventually came to pass on that day. Listening to Stern and the rest of the crew of his live studio show learn of the first impact, and the second, listening to someone sent up to the roof with binoculars and a radio, relaying what they can see. Listening to fans call in, not to comment on the early dialogue of Pamela Anderson but each bringing weighty, if fragmented news. The speculation and insight and the unknown. Remarkably quickly, someone says terrorism, and war, and pegs it - certainly sooner that I remember making that same realization.

If you watch any news commentary of the day, even if it is the unedited audio of the very beginning, it is populated with video clips from the street and a variety of angles that did not come to light for days and weeks following. But in my memory at least, I was watching hours of live continuous coverage where nobody knew what the hell was going on, whether it was a big plane or small, intentional or accidental, 5000 or 50000 souls. Even flipping from one station to another, it was all the same camera angles, one or two at the most, mainly from across the river. I remember it taking 5 minutes just to figure out if the first tower had come down or not, because all we could see was smoke and dust. We just didn't know.

Listening to this tape of the Howard Stern show brings me back to the immediacy and the uncertainty of that morning, when everything was still news and nothing was editorialized. That's what I want to feel. I feel like almost everything else is post-production work.

And then, when I have had my fill of memories from that morning, what I really want to remember the most, beyond the smoke and fire and shock, was how America felt in the week that followed that terrible Tuesday. Like somewhere between Peal Harbor and V-J Day's ticker tape parade, all crammed into one outpouring of sympathy, humanity, patriotism, pride, vengeance, magnanimity and understanding. Flags on cars, on the street, on houses. People speaking to one another, strangers and neighbors and family, with a new measure of perspective and civility and a sense that, hey, we're all in this together and we're gonna have to be a team about it. And that was an America that I was insanely proud to be a part of, a country brought together, united through the character of the people that are her foundation and her purpose.

At the park

Remembering..

People have different ways of remembering things. Important life moments, heart-breaking experiences, bright flashes of joy. We have rituals and rights of remembrance, and the hanging on and remembering begins to gain its own importance, separate and distinct from the memory itself.

I am one of those folks that drags memories along, collecting them as I go like a little boy putting rocks in his pockets  on a walk. Does all that gravel weigh me down, keep me from "living in the moment"? I don't know - I don't think so. You can have a big pack and still make the summit, and you might even enjoy the taste of sweat and pride more at the top because of it.

I heard this song on the radio Pandora today, and it made me think about someone I knew, and the rituals that will be held across america this weekend:

Carolina Blue

I got a notice in the mail about the Carolina '01 reunion next month at Homecoming. Hard to believe its been ten years...