Why I Didn't Become a Doctor

I had an idea of what I wanted to do when I was significantly younger. Not be, but do as far as a career. Have I always been a ball-busting over-achiever? Apparently, yes. Back in the day, to get into hospital administration you needed to be a doctor and a lawyer. I thought it would be so cool to do that. Plus, I’ve always loved medicine and law. Perfect place for said over-achiever.

The following is not an easy one to tell nor – I’m sure – read. There are a few graphic details in here that will absolutely upset some people. Read on with caution.

This story is really about why a child’s dreams/aspirations got absolutely dashed to pieces by the thoughtless, careless attitude and actions of an adult – a doctor. I suppose why I try to be so mindful with people today. I remember that painful night so clearly. Too clearly. And far too many of the details too. It was August 23, 1979, and it was the night my mother very suddenly and unexpectedly died, two months before her 41 birthday. I had just turned 14 about three and a half weeks before that. Gutting? Absolutely. There’s this and many other reasons I have such a dark side I talk openly about. Many revolve around and stem from this night.

It was a great, warm day and an equally warm night. Nothing out of the ordinary though. School was going back in in about a week. First time ever it was to start before the long weekend. Why? I don’t remember and it just doesn’t matter at this point.

All the cool girls were getting these shoes by Candies that year. A 3” heeled stiletto clog, basically and I wanted to get a pair. Or at least be able to wear these wedge heels my mother had bought for me in the spring. Bear in mind my age at this juncture. I wanted to hang with the cool kids. I certainly wasn’t one. Too tall, lanky, science nerd and all-around dork. Big one. That was also into sports. Figure that one out. So, what would any intelligent, responsible mother say to her just-turned 14-year-old daughter that thinks it’s okay to wear 3” heels to school and would in no way wear makeup either? Of course she did. She said No.

My mother may have been 5’2” but when she told you to do something - or not do it - you listened to her. No heels for school. My life as a junior high senior super-dork, just started sucking. As far as I saw it anyway. I didn’t know how bad it was about to get. On my way up to my bedroom all pissed off – and after just having the first and last big fight with my mother – I muttered “I hate you” under my breath. I understand getting upset with people – sometimes outright mad. I do it every day I have to drive in this city. I said something else too but I’ll leave that for a bit.

It was around eight at night so I just stayed in my bedroom the rest of the night listening to my radio. Pretty much like any other angst-ridden teen would have done. Not sure when I fell asleep but probably around 10 PM. I used to be a heavy sleeper. When I woke next it was just after midnight – about 12.30 AM. In my mind still Wednesday but technically, it was Thursday. I’ve never been a fan of days that end in “y”. But that’s my problem.

What I woke up to was surreal. Lots of flashing lights. WTH? was going through my mind. Trying to process what I was seeing. A couple fire trucks. I think a police vehicle. An ambulance. The street was lit up with flashing lights and they were all parked outside my home. OMG I needed to see if my folks knew what was happening. I pull on my jeans and step into the hallway only to see a fireman go into my parents bedroom. What the…? I followed him in. I stood there staring at the person on the floor that two firemen/paramedics were working on. It was my mother. I could tell from looking at her – purplish, bloated – she was already dead. What this hell kind of thing is that for a 14 year-old kid to see? I suspect that’s what the fireman I was standing next to realized as well. He ushered me out of there pretty quickly with a gentle, respectful, “I don’t think you should be here”. Too late. You just can’t unsee shit like that. Ever.

Clearly my dad wasn’t in the room they were working on my mother in. I had to find him. Livingroom? No. Kitchen. No. I opened the door to go down to the family room and there he was sitting on the stairs with my younger sister, holding her tightly, both crying. Now there’s no way in hell I could tell him about what I just saw so all I could do is ask him “what’s going on dad?”. He tried explaining they had gone to bed about 10.30 or 11 PM and mother had been feeling a little “off”. Couldn’t get comfortable. I think he said she’s gotten up to go to the bathroom and when she came back to bed, just flopped on it. Totally unlike her. She never flopped anywhere. She sat. She laid down. She curled up. Everything she did was always done with an element of elegance. She most definitely never, ever flopped.

That’s when my dad’s world fell apart. There are details I remember as images and not really words. That’s how I see and remember things. Images. I translate into words. Sometimes that takes substantially longer but it’s how I see and do things. I just works for me. He told me the words. I see how it all happened. He tried to revive her. He was having problems. She wasn’t breathing. He had to leave her to call 911 as the phone was in the kitchen. He didn’t want to wake me or my sister. He was frantic and falling apart. Something was seriously wrong with his soul-mate and he can’t help her. He got through and waited for them to show up. I believe he said it was about 5 minutes or so.

My room was across the hall from my folks bedroom while my sister’s was directly below it. Remember I mentioned I used to be a heavy sleeper? My sister wasn’t as much of one. She was underneath the whole maelstrom the entire time. We sat in the stairwell until the police/fireman told us they were taking her to Rockyview. We followed behind but dad being the non-rule breaker he is, went the speed limit. Even with deserted roads. I’m still amazed by this. But I get it. He had the next two most precious things in his entire world to take care of at this moment and he was not going to treat that recklessly.

When we arrived they were expecting us. They put us into a “family room”. That’s what they called it back in those days. It was really no better than a large closet with vinyl benches attached to opposite walls – not facing the door. Facing one another. As if knowing the pain the other person/people in the room weren’t enough, you had to sit there and stare at them. Another of life’s events you can’t look away from. I have no idea how long we sat there for. My ears were ringing. My heart was pounding. I think I was crying. My dad sat across from me with my sister. I was alone. Then the door opened and everything officially started sliding sideways. There was this doctor standing in the doorway.

Correction. Blocking it. He wouldn’t even come in the room. Didn’t want to be there. There was a nurse standing behind said late 50’s/early 60’s  doctor that clearly wanted in the room before he casually devastated a family. But no. She had a murderous look on her face as he (almost) flippantly announced from the doorway, “I’m sorry. There was nothing we could do. She was basically DOA when she got here. We tried but there was nothing we could do.” And as he turned to leave us in stunned silence, the nurse pushed past him, sat heavily beside me and grabbed me to hug me.

WTH was that? How the hell is that being a kind, caring human being? That was not how my sister and I were raised. You don’t treat people like that. You treat them with Respect. Kindness. Courtesy. Dignity. There was none of that in what he just did to us.

That was when I very hatefully thought, “if that’s what you turn into when you become a doctor, I don’t want any part of it.” Bastard. Ruined everything. My mother was dead – thanks for “trying”. Killed my dreams with your pissy, cavalier attitude. Screw you. (Had the F-word been a part of my lexicon at the time, it would have been the word of the day for that and many, many days to come. But I’ve made up for that now.)

Of course by the time we got home I think it was around 3 or 4 AM. Thursday, August 23, 1979 and everyone knew what had happened that night. OMG did you hear? Gail died. Poor Gerry & the girls. But aside from the weird looks we got from people and the tears from the mothers that now knew two motherless daughters, I don’t remember a lot of help. Pity, yes. Actual help, nope. 

When the autopsy results came out several days later, it was beyond strange and wholly unbelievable. Something out of the “Twilight Zone”. How is it possible for a 40 year-old woman to be 70 on the inside? It was some form of accelerated aging and they couldn’t explain any more than we could try to even wrap our heads around. They just didn’t know. The closest thing to it was progeria. Google it.

Had I gone into medicine – as I had planned before all of this – genetic research, or oncology, would have been my field of choice. Genetic manipulation has the power to do a lot of good. And some horrible things too. But that’s another write & read. Starting school that year was brutal. None of my friends could/would talk to me. I poured myself into my school work. About two weeks in, we had to do our obligatory “what I did this summer”. Any bets on what I wrote about? You’d be partially right.

I touched on the horrible events my family had excruciatingly been ripped through but the one thing no one saw coming, was my plea for anyone in my life to move past the events and treat me like I was a person as opposed to the ghost they seemed to think I was. They did and things slowly improved then deteriorated rapidly toward the end of the school year. My “best-friend” was getting into drugs. And by “drugs” I mean pot. I wanted nothing to do with it and didn’t have anything to do with it. Started doing less and less with her too. Then her “dealer” (another student) came to me one day and told me BFF had told her I was to pay for it. Well, one thing led to another and I called her out and challenged her to a fight after school.

When kids – or adults – fight physically like that, there are no winners. I also remember losing a very cherished necklace I had from early in my childhood when she ripped it off me. I lost a lot between August 1979 & the fall of 1980 and the worst was yet to come. There was a family member that had bullied me from the time I was 3 or 4 and always seemed to find the most opportune time to dig the metaphorical knife into my back every single time. Summer was horrid. Spent part of it at my drunk uncle’s place just north east of Edmonton. He was a piece of work. Loved my aunt – she was the complete opposite of him and a pillar of strength. He wasn’t the bully though. He just made those few weeks with them that much worse.

Remember I said I have a dark side? It was this past years’ events that did me in. Helping dad with the business he and my mother had started just over a year before. Taking care of & “being responsible” for the house. Losing my BFF and being ridiculed over the reasons why. That one person in my family that was born broken and just couldn’t help themselves. They derive pleasure out of other peoples’ pain. Especially if they can cause it. The poking and prodding. Mean comments. Pushing. Shoving. Mental abuse. Physical abuse. 

It all got worse and I hit my apex on the Friday evening of the long weekend, 1980. Too much of dad’s home-made wine and his stash of valium and I just wanted to stop the pain of all of it. It had so completely & desperately shattered me. But, somehow, I survived. Don’t recall all that happened – of course – who would? But I’m still here. A little worse for wear. A ton more cynical. Untrusting. Wary of people and their intentions because how can they be good? Maybe I should have been a cop.

I remember my father making me promise the very next morning to never try that again. My sister and I were the most precious things in the world to him and he would be so completely lost without us. I promised and have kept it. Do I think about it when I feel like I’m hurting beyond repair? Oh hell yes. Will I ever act upon it. I really don’t believe so. Does my doctor ask me every time I see her if I feel like I’m a danger to myself or others? You bet she does. I can honestly say my answer is always “no”. I have so many of my own reasons to be on this planet. Joyful ones. Even if there are other areas in my life I struggle or am struggling with. I have to look beyond the current pain to see other good out there and that it’s not just all about me. If I were to selfishly take that lonely road, it would leave so many broken hearts behind. I just can’t do that to someone.

Remember I said I had said something else that night? This is also a lesson in “be careful of what you wish for” as well. The five words I uttered and never will again were, “I wish you were dead”. Yes. Yes I did. Guess what? I don’t make wishes. I can’t wish for something. I’m so afraid to. Even good ones. The most staggering, life-altering wish ever. So yes, be very careful what you wish for and be very careful on the clarification of said wish. Don’t be afraid to go into details. Things could go horribly wrong if you don’t. But I digress.

If I could thank (in person) the paramedics/firefighters that night for their efforts and the dignity they treated us with, I'd do it in a heartbeat. Sobbing tears and all. It was a horrible night for them too. A young mother dying. Nothing they could do but their best and it still wasn't good enough.

Maybe I might have been a good doctor. But for now, I do what I can to lighten this world and help make folks feel better in that moment. It may be just the thing they need to save their life.

Peace & Love