Multiply Life by the Power of Two

{Prompt: What was one of the toughest parts about raising twins?}

Raising twins is hard… for about two years. They arrive prematurely (about 4 weeks early, on average), and often require bilirubin lights for treatment of neonatal jaundice. Their breastfeeding can exhaust the mother. They double the need for diaper changes, and they take turns waking the parents at night.

But after two years, raising twins gets easier. They recognize their twin sibling as a playmate and compatriot. They entertain one another, and it gets easier for the parent to step away.

Even when their play becomes horseplay, there is less danger of one child hurting the other, as might occur with an older sibling. With twins they are more evenly matched. More likely to wear each other out than to cause serious harm.

They learn to share or take turns well before kindergarten (when most kids begin). Their food, clothes, and attention can be shared, making the care of twins—identical twins—quite efficient.

One meal can be split for both children… unless they have particular food preferences.

One wardrobe of clothes can be shared for a while… at least, until favorite outfits have been chosen.

Bedtime stories can be read to an audience. Books can be shared… until the passion for reading becomes all consuming. (Then, two copies of ‘Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban’ are required on the day of the book launch, instead of one.)

Stuffed animals can be shared… until you pick a favorite.

The major problem is treating each child as an individual. We realized it was becoming a problem, when we realized that you were starting to pick your favorite parent… the way you picked your favorite stuffed animals.

We realized that we needed to have time with each child individually, giving each child some one-on-one time with each parent — a chance to pick up some qualities from both mother and father alike. We didn’t want either child to become too much like one parent or the other.

So we got you different clothes (partly to tell, sometimes, who was who, when the nail polish wore off). We might get matching pajamas, but with different-colored fabric… matching dresses but with different trim… different hats—a beret for Samantha and a newsboy hat for Jasmine.

We encouraged you to play different instruments. Recorder and flute for Samantha. Piano for Jasmine. Samantha had to focus on posture, breath control, playing a fixed melody. Jasmine had to learn melody with one hand and chords with her other.

There were different sports. For Samantha, it is volleyball— mother’s first love. Consequently, setting and receiving skills were paramount. Coaches had a high bar to reach for parental approval.

For Jasmine, it is Soccer — father’s (and the world’s) most beautiful game — a sport of improvisation and flow, only limited by the sidelines and by stamina — an introduction to a new lifetime obsession (Books being #1).

We even tried to create separate time alone with one daughter or the other. But that was awfully hard. The efficiency of going out together was just too great. And our twins got along so well with each other — a surprise to both Mom and me (who had such seemingly adversarial relationships with our older siblings).

You both loved to read. You both loved Broadway musicals. You both loved the kitchen, though Jasmine preferred baking and Samantha preferred cooking. You both came to love Halloween. You were both smart and creative.

I guess the critical period of self-actualization came in 9th grade. Although you both applied for Raleigh Charter (with uncertain levels of interest) only Jasmine got in, by chance, and for one year Jasmine attended a completely different high school.

Jasmine went to southeast Raleigh, became part of a new school, joined clubs, including Drama Club and the GSA (Gay-Straight Alliance), and made brand new friends.

Samantha stayed at Middle Creek, played volleyball and played in marching band, until she was allowed to enter Raleigh Charter, the following year.

This also tracks with my impression of Jasmine, as willing to take risks socially, willing to change course more easily, being more communal. Did I form that impression, because Jasmine went off to charter school first, or is it really true?

And Samantha: I see her as more thorough in her attention to a problem or activity, more focused on completing a task, more aloof. Do I see her that way because it was required by chance, or is there more to it?

Regardless of my perceptions, I tried to maintain a fundamental fairness in my time and my expectations, even as your interests and abilities diverged. I tried to treat Jasmine as a smart and capable person (even though I felt like she sometimes gave up too easily). I tried to moderate Samantha’s self-expectations (because she was hard on herself).

When you were engaged in the college application process, I tried to help you find places where you could have your own unique experience, but still be close enough to have your joint experience, even if it was away from Mom and Dad. I created the most elaborate spreadsheet of college possibilities you could imagine (carefully archived in a notebook in our time capsule treasure box).

I never dreamed that you would end up going to Case Western Reserve University together…

Or find jobs in Washington DC, and end up living together…

Or find jobs in Raleigh, and end up sharing a condominium.

Perhaps my focus on individuality was misplaced. The power of twinship is undeniable. Your differences are superficial and fleeting — your clothes, your hairstyle, your glasses, your scars, or your birthmarks.

But your similarities are deep and abiding. Your care for your friends, your geeky obsessions, your liberal bent, your love of nature and adventure, your shared history, your shared joys and losses.

I guess I wanted you each to choose your own passions and make your own ‘mistakes’. I wanted your lives to be your own, not a new version of your parents’ lives. I thought that you should be different from us, and different from each other, but that was a foolish conceit.

As parents… as role-models… we merely set the ball rolling.

Your intrinsic humanness, and your human experience, dictates the person that you become, individually. And the persons… the dyad… that you become, as twins.

Head to Toe (A Drama in Three Acts)

{Prompt: Tell me about the night Sam and I were born.}

Act I - Family Practice Residency

In 1994, I turned 30 years old, and I was a young married professional. I was working for the University of South Carolina / Richland Memorial Hospital residency program in Columbia, South Carolina. They offered me a spot to train in their program for the specialty of Family Practice. I accepted because it was in the same city where my mother had been born and raised. However, for me, the city of Columbia and the state of South Carolina were completely new.

Like Raleigh, Columbia is a capital city and a college town, but where we lived on the outskirts of town, we could only enjoy hearing the percussive thuds of the artillery exercises on the army base at Fort Jackson, or the muffled orders and squawking response of the McDonald’s drive-through behind our small, flat backyard.

And the closest park to be enjoyed was Sesquicentennial Park, where scrub pines provided only a smattering of shade in the heat of the Sandhills region. It wasn’t a very rich experience, except for the richness of the medical education on the residency rotations.

It was my third year of marriage and my third year of residency. I had the responsibilities of a senior resident, and I spent many hours in the clinic, on the wards, or on call. I was often on a rotation in one clinic or another, far from home. I probably spent 50 or 60 hours at work each week. I spent more of my waking hours at the hospital than I did at home.

Not only was I immersed in my medical rotations. I was also starting to think like a doctor. I was learning not only to care for my patients, but to appear caring and receptive.

I was learning to listen to a patient’s complaints and concerns with empathy, while also exercising some skepticism about their interpretations and self-diagnoses.

I was learning to split my thinking brain into one side, showing compassion, and another side, generating a differential diagnosis (a list of possible conditions) and a diagnostic algorithm (a set of discriminatory questions and examinations) with which to reach the diagnosis. Basically I was learning to split my personality into the outwardly caring persona (the “good doctor”) and the inwardly analytical logician (the “diagnostician”).

This is the headspace I was in when Dianne dropped in unexpectedly during my morning schedule of patients at the “continuity of care clinic” on campus in November.

“What are you doing here?” I said.

“We’re having our babies!”

“What?” (Is she in labor? It’s five weeks before the due date.)

“We’re having our babies. Today!”

“What?” (She doesn’t look like she’s in labor. She seems a little… manic.)

“I had my ultrasound this morning, and they said that one of them is too much bigger than the other one, and they need to be delivered. Today! They called it twin growth disparity. One of them is taking all the nutrients, and the other one isn’t getting enough. So I’m scheduled for a C-section this afternoon. So get ready to have your babies.”

“Oh… Okay.” (Oh shit. I thought I had more time.) “Okay, I have to talk to some people to get my patients rescheduled. I’ll call you when I’m done.”

So I wrapped up clinic early that day, and I let the attending physicians know that I had an urgent family medical issue, that my wife was scheduled for a C-section. And I don’t really know what happened after that. Next thing I remember we were all in the operating room.

Act II - The Operating Room

A labor and delivery operating room is quite big. It has to be big enough to hold quite a lot of people (and equipment).

At the head of the surgical table, you find the still conscious expectant mother. She is able to witness (or at least hear) the entire proceeding. A partition is draped between her and her belly, and I am allowed to sit on one side of her, and the anesthesiologist is on the other. The partition, which is made of a light blue pleated surgical apron, keeps me and her from looking directly at the business end of the surgical shenanigans. On the other side of her head sits the anesthesiologist, on a surgical stool, with all sorts of monitors, medications, and machinery with which to ensure the health of the most important person in the room, the mother-to-be.

A newborn, mother, and the surgical partition.

In the middle of the action is the Obstetrician, the surgical assistant, the surgical nurse, and another nurse or assistant… or two. They are all standing in the “wings” of the operating theater as the surgical lamps cast a spotlight on the place where the twin starlets will emerge onto center stage.

A surgical team beneath surgical lights.

Off in the distance, below the foot of the table, there are two bassinets, and two or three pediatric specialists waiting to make their neonatal assessment, and if necessary, to perform a neonatal resuscitation. They are quietly talking behind the scenes (in this theatrical metaphor) as the action unfolds.

Everything goes according to plan. At least according to the surgeon’s plan. I wasn’t aware that the babies’ birth order was going to be reversed. The baby that was lower in the birth canal, who would have been the first baby born in a vaginal delivery, was the second to be born in the C-section. The baby that was higher in the uterus — the one that was smaller — had the honor of entering the world first, at 4:32 pm. She became Baby A — Jasmine Allison Gallup. Baby B was pulled out a minute later, at 4:33 pm — Samantha Bailey Gallup.

Samantha (left) & Jasmine (right.)

From my training, I knew that APGAR scores would be taken at one minute after birth and at five minutes after birth, and these scores would be strongly indicative of the health of the infants and their prospects for an uncomplicated hospital stay.

I don’t remember the exact scores, but I remember a bit of relief as the scores were announced. It wasn’t long before the babies were brought, one by one, from the foot of the bed to a place above the partition where Dianne and I could see Jasmine and Samantha up close for the very first time. The OR, and the world, just got a little more crowded.

A Measure of Viability

Act III – The Nursery

After the surgery is completed, Dianne is taken to post-op for cleaning and observation, and then to a room at the quiet end of the maternity ward for some much-needed sleep. I am invited to join the RN in the nursery for a little orientation to fatherhood.

The nursery is everything that the operating room is not. The operating room is like the definition of ‘chiaroscuro,’ — a combination of light and shadow, as the surgical lamps cast bright beams on the pregnant belly, and all else is in relative darkness.

The nursery is completely bathed in warm incandescent light, and if the overhead lighting isn’t enough, additional light can be found emanating from the neonatal incubators, which gently warm the fragile infants until their bodies can thermoregulate themselves.

While the surgical suite was filled with unfamiliar people and seemed crowded, the intake room of the nursery is empty, except for me and two babies, and the nurse, whom I know from a previous rotation.

The nurse is calm and capable — sweet and sympathetic. She goes through the “head to toe assessment” step by step, explaining each step to me as she goes along. She is explaining the process as if I am the newborn’s father… not as if I am an emotionally detached medical resident. This makes me feel like a father for the very first time.

I’ve actually done the Head to Toe assessment myself on other people’s babies. I’m familiar with all of the measures, reflexes, and areas of focus.

But first the babies must have a sponge bath. They are carefully cleaned in all their nooks and crannies. Their hair is combed and their bangs are swept to one side. They are given a new hoodie and a soft, warm baby blanket.

After they are given some loving attention, the focus is on their size and development. Head, chest, and waist circumference are taken. Weight and length are measured. Measures of physical and neuromuscular maturity are taken. Their arms and legs are pulled and stretched like a neonatal yoga class, to determine their level of actual maturity (as opposed to their predicted maturity based on the mother’s last menses and the calculated expected date of conception).

(A chart I probably used during my pediatric rotation.)

Each child in turn is examined for jaundice, birthmarks, hematomas, and other skin findings.

Each skull is palpated for the anterior fontanelle — the soft spot.

All four eyes are examined for a proper red reflex, to rule out a detached retina or other problem with vision.

Each mouth is examined for cleft palate and for a normal sucking reflex.

Each heart is auscultated for a murmur to rule out valvular heart defects.

Each abdomen is palpated for the liver and spleen.

Each umbilical cord is examined above and below the clamp.

The arms are examined for brachial palsy. The legs are examined for hip dysplasia.

The fingers and toes are counted and examined: 10 fingers and 10 toes for each baby.

The spine is examined for spina bifida and for scoliosis.

The genitals are examined for any sexual anomaly.

The neurological exam is performed, including a check of the rooting reflex and palmar grasp—so necessary for nursing.

I’ve done these examinations before. I understand the medical basis for the head to toe exam, but this time I am a quiet… a reverent observer.

Somehow the process and the checklist are a comfort, and a recovery… for me from all of the excitement and stress of the events of the day.

At the end of the exam, only one thing remains. A heel stick must be performed on each infant to collect a blood sample to send off to screen for hereditary conditions. Each baby in turn screams in protest as the heel stick is performed. Then each baby in turn is comforted — swaddled and settled into a nursery crib for their own recovery. I, too, am escorted out of the nursery.

My quiet time with my babies is over, and I return to watch over Dianne until she awakes.

She has precedence in the babies’ care now… in their nursing, their sleeping, and their comfort. I will help… by swaddling the infants and changing their diapers, supplementing their feedings with sugar water, wrapping them in ‘biliblankets’, and burping them.

But Dianne is doing the breastfeeding — balancing both infants on a horseshoe-shaped nursing pillow until they latch on. Now it’s her turn to examine them from head to toe.

Our birth announcement

I think that the “mom” in this inscription (probably to my brother) is my Mom, who came down to Columbia to help out.

Epilogue

The specialty of family practice prides itself on seeing patients across the entire lifespan, from cradle to grave. The knowledge and ability to evaluate and treat neonates, preschoolers, children, and teens separates family physicians from Medical Internists and General Practitioners, who only treat adults.

Cover of the American Family Physician

The Road Less Traveled

{Prompt: Have you ever been lost?}

When Dianne took over driving the rental Jeep in Northern Arizona, I began to really understand why they call the roll-bar grab handles the “Oh, Shit! handles.”

Navajo Route 13 was marked as a secondary highway in the fold-out official Arizona State map, but it was unlike any ‘highway’ I had ever been on. It was more like a forestry trail. It was paved only with gravel and dirt as it ascended the Lukachukai mountains towards Buffalo Pass, and it seemed like a dry mountain stream was taking the same path in the other direction, its bed meandering from one side of the road to the other.

Navajo Route 16 Scenic Byway

When I was driving (before Dianne), I felt like I was going slowly — really slowly up the road, taking every precaution to keep the Jeep’s undercarriage from hitting bottom. Nevertheless, the Jeep was rocking from side to side and Dianne was looking a bit green around the gills. She asked me to stop.

So we stopped in the middle of this rut-filled road, between Chinle, Arizona, and Shiprock, New Mexico, and we switched drivers. This was back in 1993, or ’94, before we had children — before we had a last will and testament.

I walked to the passenger side, mounted the floorboard, buckled up, and grabbed the grab bar.

Dianne walked to the driver’s side, adjusted her seat, buckled up, and grabbed the steering wheel.

Then she started up this roller-coaster road with good and proper caution, winding across the gullies from side to side.

It wasn’t long, however, before she had the Jeep bouncing up the road, with gravel spitting out from under the tires, at an alarming velocity. She had a smile on her face. She didn’t look the least bit ill, anymore. She was loving it.

I was truly terrified.

I never really realized before how vastly your perspective can change in the short distance between the driver’s seat and the passenger seat. As a driver—the one in control—the road seemed as springy and exciting as a children’s inflatable bounce house. But as a passenger—the one without control—the road seemed as jolting and ominous as the crashing waves of a storm at sea.

I was never so happy as when the road began to level out, approaching the mountain pass, and the “perfect storm” began to resemble a car ride once more.

But now we had a different problem.

There seemed to be a paucity of directional signs. And the signs that we did see were bright yellow, and said something like, “Caution - Gas Pipeline” or “Danger - Natural Gas Field”. It turns out that we were entering the Nacogdoches Oil and Gas Yard, a place for extracting natural gas near Roof Butte in Apache County, Arizona.

We would have happily driven right by, but the road we were on began to split with no discernible wayside markers. Dianne took one turn, in the direction opposite the setting sun, and then another. Each time, the set of road choices seemed nearly identical.

Now we began to pass clusters of metal piping, emerging from the ground, in different places. We were well and truly in the middle of a field of natural gas wells.

A natural gas well in a more serene setting

And then the graveled surface of the road began to disappear into sets of parallel tire tracks. And then the tire tracks began to fade into a fine layer of light snow. It was time to stop.

This was in the early 1990s, before GPS systems were widely available (about 2007) — before smart phones and the internet. Although to be fair, we probably were in just about the least accessible place in the US for satellite reception. This adventure would have been just as ill-conceived today, as it was three decades ago.

Dianne was happy, now, to give up the steering wheel, and we switched drivers once more.

I turned the car around, and headed for tracks that were more recognizable — less covered in snow. Roads that were more, rather than less, traveled by. Channeling my inner Wild West scout/tracker instincts, I tracked our way back to a promising-looking gravel road heading down the other side of the mountains in an easterly direction.

I felt a wave of relief, and my grip on the wheel relaxed. I began to breathe more easily.

We both gave thanks to our heavenly stars that we found our way back towards civilization.

The sun was setting behind us as we made our way down onto the flat plain of the Red Valley of the Navajo nation, and past the awe-inspiring Ship Rock, an ancient landmark on the Navajo lands of northern New Mexico.

Ship Rock at sunset

All in all, this was a trip full of adventure. I think, on this particular trip, we went from Scottsdale, Arizona (the home of Dianne’s Uncle Victor and Aunt Mary) northwest to Canyon de Chelly (National Monument) in Arizona; then north to the Four Corners monument at the convergence of the four states—Arizona, New Mexico, Colorado, and Utah; then north again to Telluride, Colorado, and the Telluride ski resort; then west to Moab, Utah, and Canyonlands National Park; and then south to Monument Valley in southern Utah before we returned to Scottsdale, Arizona.

The places we went were spectacular. We saw the 800 foot monolith of Spider Rock from the rim of Canyon de Chelly — a place that inspired the cartoons of Wile E. Coyote and the Roadrunner.

Spider Rock & Canyon de Chelly (Anne McKinnell Photography)

And from the floor of the canyon, we saw the cliff dwellings of the Anasazi civilization at the White House ruins — a backdrop for the Chinle wash, lined by cottonwood trees.

White House Ruins (Jim West - Science Photo Library)

We saw the old western mining town of Telluride surrounded by the peaks of the San Juan mountains.

Telluride, Colorado

And we skied on the wide-open southern slopes above “Mountain Village” at the Telluride ski resort. Before dusk, we carefully followed the meandering and narrow Telluride Trail ski path back down the shaded northern slopes of the ski resort right into the city. The warm glow of the incandescent lights was enchanting.

The lights of Telluride beneath the ski slopes.

We took the Shafer Basin Road up the side of a canyon at Canyonlands National Park, to the Island in the Sky visitor center, in Utah.

Shafer Basin Trail (National Park Service photo)

And we rented bicycles in Moab to go on a “relatively easy” mountain trail overlooking the Canyonlands. Once again, we found ourselves in unexpected difficulty. It was described as “a little climbing” at the start of the trail, but the reality was much worse.

Our little climb was a steep gradient on a fire road with virtually no traction. The road was almost entirely composed of a layer of loose sand, one to two inches deep. We spent at least a half an hour making our way to the canyon rim, alternately pushing our bikes, and spinning our wheels.

Once we arrived at the top of the plateau, the trail was much firmer, composed primarily of red rock, making for a relatively flat and pleasant ride with incredible views across the canyons of the park.

A representative view of the White Rim Trail

When we finished the wonderful excursion at the top, we slipped and slid our way back to the parking area at the bottom, where another group of riders were just jabbering away about how nice and easy the whole ride had been. Dianne focused a piercing glare on their beaming faces and demanded to know, in what world this was an easy ride. Well… it turns out that their tour company had dropped them off — bicycles, gear, and all — at the top of the trail! For them, the entire ride had been an easy pedal and a coast downhill.

The Road Less Traveled

It seems as if (as a matter of conserving our savings, or as a matter of defying the norms) we have always taken “the road less traveled by”.

Sometimes that takes us to an amazing place—a snow-covered pinnacle with a panoramic view.

But sometimes it takes us into a maze of utility roads in the middle of a natural gas mining field…

Somewhere in the mountains of the Navajo nation…

With a crappy map and no emergency supplies…

As the sun is setting.

Appendix

- The Road Not Taken - by Robert Frost
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Enjoy the Moment

{Prompt: What would you consider to be your motto?}

— J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring

A Good Motto

It seems like a really good motto should be in Latin.

“Esse Quam Videri” — the North Carolina state motto — is one of my favorites. It means, “To be rather than to seem.”

“Maius opus moveo” — my high school motto — is also appropriate. It means, “Accept the greater challenge.”

“Carpe diem” — a widely understood quote from Horace — may be the closest to the heart of my core beliefs. It means, “Seize the day.”

Misquoting Ralph Waldo Emerson, I’ve often said in real life, “It’s the journey, not the destination”, or more simply, “Try to enjoy the journey,” as I try to remind myself and my companions not to be so serious — to try not to plan every single second.

It seems like good advice, as I see those ideas reflected in the principles of ‘Mindfulness’ and in the practice of Zen Buddhism. I’ve heard that — in a nutshell — depression is too much worry about the past, and anxiety is too much worry about the future, so we should “Live in the moment”.

In reality, that’s really hard to do. Boy Scouts taught me to “Be prepared.” That’s pretty much diametrically opposed to living in the moment.

And in medical school, we learned to “First, do no harm.” But to avoid doing harm, you pretty much had to foresee the consequences of your actions or recommendations. I wasn’t able to foresee future outcomes back then as readily as I was after I completed my medical training.

As I’ve grown to realize from experience, many mistakes are made from rushing headlong into adventure. And yet, ironically, we learn best and most consequentially when we learn from our misadventures.

The lessons of experience are especially painful — and memorable — and eventually, in hindsight, they can be really amusing. So now, when I tell someone to “Enjoy the moment”, I often add the corollary, “If it goes badly, at least it’ll make a good story someday.”

View near the top of Beehive Trail

The Beehive Trail

And there are many such stories in my life of mistakes that became legendary. There was the time when Dianne and I went hiking up the Beehive trail in Acadia National Park — a trail described as “challenging” and “adventurous” — offering “stunning views of Sand Beach and the Atlantic Ocean”.

Somehow we missed the part of the description that warned of narrow ledges, steep drop-offs, and areas that required rock scrambling (or we found the details too dire or fantastical to be believed).

We were given a firm warning in the form of a sturdy wooden sign nearly blocking the path, with the bold words, “IRON RUNGS AHEAD”. We still had a chance to turn back and take another trail, but we just didn’t know what it meant. So we both laughed at the cryptic nature of the warning and moved on ahead.

As we walked up the rocky path, it began to look less like a trail, and more like a ledge! The scrubby brush and loose pebbles began to fall away, opening up views of the corrugated surface of the ocean and the distant parking lot down below— cars appearing to be the size of miniatures in a model diorama.

We began to pass, on one side, the trunks and branches of trees rooted far below. On the other side, the rock face rose, as steeply as a ladder. Looking up along the rock face, we could see the figures of other climbers shuffling along the ledges up above, and above them, the blue backdrop and clouds of the Acadian sky.

This is when, as our progress slowed and we caught our breath, we saw a few things—things we had rarely (or never) seen on a mountain trail before:

1 - some people were stopping, looking at one another, worriedly considering —or reconsidering— their plans;

2 - some people were turning back, carefully and apologetically passing us by, on the narrow path, as they retraced their steps; some shaken by fear, others muttering oaths to themselves, upset at having to give in to their fears; and

3 - Iron rungs, like the rungs of a mountain ascent, leading up ten to twelve feet from the ledge we were on, to other ledges above — each ledge with seemingly greater and greater distance between the climbers above and the ground far below.

At this point, the trail became a bona fide climb of the 450 foot rock face and our understanding of the warning sign was completely answered. Between the two of us, nothing was said, surprisingly, and with one accord, we grabbed the iron rungs and went on. Only now, the climb took on more gravity (pun intended) as we were fully aware of the potential for calamity with any misstep or folly.

Dianne went first, and she climbed upward with a ferocity I had never seen before or have I seen since. And I was right on her heels (literally and figuratively) as I followed behind and below. Neither of us dared to stop and turn around to ‘enjoy’ the view — afraid of recreating a scene from “Vertigo” and losing either our footing or our courage.

With a fine layer of sweat glistening in the sun, we approached the bare summit, where we were wrapped in a cooling breeze. As the path leveled off, we found an area of solid footing, well away from the precipitous mountainside, and took our first looks at one another since we began our mad scramble up. It was a look of relief and disbelief.

“You’re gonna have to call the helicopter, ‘cause there is no way we’re goin’ back down that trail!”, said Dianne.

I chuckled and nodded. I had already resolved to find another, less death-defying way down, if I lived to see the top.

“Put the fear of God into you, and you can climb pretty fast!” I said.

“Well, we’re NEVER doin’ that again!” she replied.

Dianne near Beehive Mountain on a return visit.

In fact, we actually did climb Beehive mountain again, but we took the easy, more circuitous trail to the top, and we enjoyed every moment, every view of the rugged, glacier-carved Acadia National Park, speckled with various hues of greens and evergreens on the ochre rocks, blue sky above and blue-green ocean below, meeting at the horizon.

Various dots of fabricated colors indicating the presence of fellow tourists, in colorful garb, hiking in the distance. From the safety of our “easy” trail, we saw a line of those colored dots in the distance, young and foolish (dare I say, intrepid) adventurers, snaking up the side of the steep eastern face of Beehive. And we were okay with that.

“Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.” - Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.

****************************************

Sidebar - a Word about Courage

In medical school, when learning new skills, and practicing them on patients, we embraced the mantra, “Fake it ‘til you make it,” meaning: betray no evidence of fear or incompetence until you can actually do your job without fear or incompetence.

There was no allowance for apprehension or hesitation from our mentors, and a patient’s cooperation and confidence could be easily compromised by any evidence of nervousness or inexperience.

We were expected to “See one. Do one. Teach one.” This is a great way to develop courage and proficiency, and it works in every art or discipline:

“See one” (demonstration of a procedure) carefully memorizing the finer points and the steps required.

“Do one,” whether you’re ready or not, and learn from your mistakes.

Reflect on your experience and prepare to “Teach one” to the next person up.

“Courage is being scared to death, but saddling up anyway.”

- John Wayne

The Union of Your Spirits

{Prompt: What was your wedding like?}

The Beginning

The best part of my wedding was in its beginning.

I’m not kidding when I say that.

Of course, there was relief that the ceremony had begun, after weeks of planning.

And I was encouraged that our union would really take place, after sitting with my brother in the back of the church… isolated from the wedding party… waiting for the seats to fill.

But the beginning of our wedding was also a beautiful experience. I saw Dianne walking down the aisle, towards the altar (and me), with a radiant smile. She looked unbelievable to me, in a lovely, lacy white wedding dress that nearly matched the glow of happiness in her face.

Everything after that moment… the processional… the ceremony… the reception… pales by comparison.

The beginning of the wedding also featured two pieces of beautiful music — two pieces that we had not only requested, but insisted upon.

One piece was “The Wedding Song” (There is Love) by Noel Paul Stookey (a member of the band Peter, Paul, and Mary). The lyrics made reference to Matthew 18:20, a verse that I knew well from my inculcation in the Methodist church.

Here is a portion:

“The union of your spirits here has caused Him to remain; For whenever two or more of you are gathered in His name… There is love….”

That song was played before the processional began — a beautiful mixture of Stookey’s resonant voice and layered arpeggios on guitar. I felt the tingle of goose bumps listening to the music and the lyrics — a blessing on our union, me and Dianne.

The Wedding Song

The other song was Schubert’s Ave Maria — a traditional and religious song set to a classical melody. This piece was sung from the balcony by Dianne’s brother, Maurice, while we waited together at the front of the church. It was a prelude to the wedding sacrament. I feel sure that Dianne was as moved by her brother’s falsetto voice, singing the Ave Maria, as I was moved by The Wedding Song, before.

Those two ethereal songs, Dianne’s angelic walk down the aisle, and our reunion at the altar are priceless memories.

I should stop here. I really should.

But then you would never understand my dealings with the Greek mafia, my camaraderie with the belly dancer, or my loathing of Bette Midler.

The Greek Orthodox Church

When I first met Father George Rados, I thought he might be a part of the Greek or Middle Eastern mafia. He wore a big pair of partially shaded glasses, a big gold cross on his chest, and a clerical collar. His mouth said, “Nice to meet you”, but his eyes said, “Don’t get too comfortable.””

We met with Father George to discuss our plans for marriage, and, as it turns out, my plans to join the Greek Orthodox Church! We met with Father George at the Saints Peter and Paul Antiochian Orthodox Church — the church for Dianne and her family. According to Father George (…and who was I to contradict him), there could be no wedding of a Greek Orthodox woman to a Protestant man.

For a moment, I thought that the wedding was off.

But Father George graciously offered a practical solution. I would simply have to join the Greek Orthodox church, pledging my allegiance.

Father George with Steve & Dianne Gallup

Back in 1991, I had been busy studying medicine and public health, and I was not particularly well acquainted with the history of the Greek Orthodox Church. I knew practically nothing about “her mystical vision of God and His Kingdom… the beauty of her worship… the purity of her Christian faith, and… her continuity with the past.” I was woefully uninformed about the “Great Schism” or the subtleties of Orthodox worship.*

Fortunately, Father George gave us both a primer on the tenets of the faith — one of the oldest denominations of Christianity on Earth. For those of you who are less familiar, the service is composed of long passages of Divine Liturgy, Litany, and Sacraments. There is Communion at every service. I learned later that the part in which the congregation typically responds, “Lord, have mercy,” or “Grant this, O Lord,” is called the Litany. It is a petition for divine intervention.

The Greek Orthodox service can be a comforting ritual. The services are always sung or chanted, often in a language other than English, according to the needs of the congregation. According to a church website, “Although Orthodox Services can very often be elaborate, solemn, and lengthy, they express a deep and pervasive sense of joy.” I had seen this for myself on a few occasions, before our meeting with Father George.

The Ceremony

With our religious affiliations sorted out, we scheduled our wedding to be held at Saint Katherines Greek Orthodox Church, in Falls Church, Virginia. I had never been there before, but when I saw it, I was happily surprised. As Saint Katherine’s website itself says, “The rich color, distinctive iconography and beauty of the interior of an Orthodox Church generally are in sharp contrast to the simplicity which one finds in many… Protestant churches.”

Humor me a moment, as I describe it for you.

As you walk into the nave, your eyes are instinctively drawn to look up at the circular dome, with its muted painting of Jesus, surrounded by an array of stained glass windows, light shining in all directions, illuminating an outer circle of saints and apostles. These heavenly beings are further encircled by finely painted scenes from the life of Jesus, which in turn are lit from below by dozens of panels of stained glass where the dome meets the ceiling.

St. Katharine’s Greek Orthodox Church

Below the dome are the church nave and the Altar. The church nave holds wooden pews for the congregation; and the church altar holds the Iconostasion, an ornate wooden screen decorated with a panel of icons. The Iconostasion separates the altar from the sanctuary, where the processional cross and the censer are kept, until needed for the service.

During a normal service, when the priests and the acolytes enter, and when they leave, they make their way through the congregation with the censer swinging puffs of incense from side to side, while the priest issues blessings upon the faithful.

In our wedding, the usual procession of priests and acolytes, at the beginning, was replaced by a procession of mothers and fathers, bride’s maids and ushers, and finally (and best of all), by the bride herself.

After “The Wedding Song” and the Ave Maria, the service began in earnest.

And it went on… for quite a while.

The vows were taken care of right off the bat, but they weren’t the kind of vows you see in a soap opera wedding. We never actually said, “I do”, and I don’t think we were addressing each other, or looking deep into each other’s eyes. The vows were promises to God and the Church, addressed to Father George and the congregation, and the response each time was, “I will”, or “We will”. It was just a little disappointing.

That was just the beginning.

There was an exchange of rings, which went by in a flash, and then Father George told us with a wink, “Now we go for a little walk.”

From the altar table he took a pair of crowns, attached one to the other by a band of gilded ribbon. He put them over our heads, and he said some religious words, swapping them back and forth, like a magician with some golden hoops, about to perform a magic trick.

Then he placed them on our heads — a crown of gold, precariously perched on each of our brows. And then the five of us (Father George, Me and Dianne, the bride’s maid, Kelly, and my best man, Mike) went for a “little walk” around the middle of the altar, circling once or twice or three times… Dianne and I balancing our crowns… and holding candles… before that portion of the ritual concluded.

(Placement of the “Stefana” (crowns) during the ceremony)

The service wasn’t nearly finished.

We also performed a sacrament of communion, sharing a common cup, before the service was completed.

And then came the photo session.

Planning the Wedding

If you ever plan a wedding, give yourself some down time before the photo session. Even five minutes would be enough.

Our photo session was held right after our wedding service, and by then I had already been on an emotional roller coaster.

I had locked my keys in my car. I had been sitting in isolation near the church’s rear entrance. I had been elated by the processional, and deflated by the (unfamiliar) vows. I had exchanged rings, circled the altar in a golden crown, and completed my first Greek Orthodox communion. Now I was expected to smile for about a hundred photographs.

Of course, I was happy to oblige, and I was happy to be married, but I was ready for a break, and there were a lot of photos to smile for.

Photos with each member of the wedding party. Photos with each parent’s family, and extended family. Photos with everybody.

Let me fill you in.

Our wedding party included five bridesmaids and five ushers. Most of them were friends or family of the bride. My brother — my best man — was the sole exception. Dianne had three female cousins, her sister, and her best friend for bridesmaids; and she had an uncle, male cousin, brother, and college friend for ushers. Another cousin was the flower girl.

Dianne has a lot of relatives.

And they were all invited.

We knew going into the planning of the wedding that they must all be invited. This was the first wedding in the Shihadi family. And it was the time that her father’s generosity (at other weddings) would finally be rewarded.

We were certainly able to include our own friends and family as guests, but there was never any question that the ceremony would take place in DC. And everyone known to Dianne’s parents would be invited. It was a concession. But it was well worth it.

In most respects, our wedding plans were unimpeded. Dianne could choose her own wedding dress. We could choose the bakery for our wedding cake. We could choose the outfits for the wedding party. We could choose the flowers and table decorations. We could choose the photographer and videographer. We could choose our DJ (more on him later). And we could choose the invitations themselves. If anything, there were too many choices to be made. (It was almost as bad as all the choices we had to make for our home addition, years later, when we even had to decide where to put the light switches.)

Our Wedding Invitation

The first thing we did, was open a bank account. Mr. Shihadi “helped” us set it up. We all went to the strip mall together to sign the paperwork.

“Why do we need another bank account?” I asked Dianne. (We each had separate accounts already.)

“Because these are Arabs,” she whispered back. “They’re going to be giving us money!”

That’s about the time when Dianne began giving me a tutorial on Arabic custom and her relations. She tutored me on the names of her aunts and uncles, cousins, and their spouses. She taught me how they would say “Congratulations” (“Mabruk”), and how I should say “Thank You” (“Shukran”).

So when we entered the Knights of Columbus dining hall in Arlington, Virginia, for our reception, there was a nice big decorated gift box at the entrance, with a slot at the top for monetary gifts. (Those gifts paid for our French Renaissance style bedroom suite, including the tripartite mirror, which we later purchased from the Furnitureland showroom in High Point, North Carolina.)

I said “Shukran” repeatedly, leaning over to kiss each aunt and female cousin on their cheek, and I did my best to greet them by name, as they filed into the hall for the celebration.

The Reception

There were dozens of tables in the reception hall. Almost all of them were filled with Arabic friends and family. One or two tables contained the extended Gallup family, such as it was. And one or two tables contained a contingent of friends from Chapel Hill (where we were living at the time) and elsewhere.

We sat down for dinner at a table at the front of the room, for a few moments of relative comfort. But the respite was very brief. A performative kiss was given each time the audience started to ding their wine glasses.

And there was a big surprise.

What we didn’t know was that Dianne’s father had hired a belly dancer to perform at the reception. What he didn’t know was that she was a blond-haired American — not an Arabic dancer as he had assumed. We were both embarrassed — I by the unexpected, sensuously gyrating dancer, and Mr. Shihadi by her unexpected ethnicity.

But the belly dancer was an unabashed and sensational performer. She started to dance for the entire hall, showing enough grace and skill to convince anyone that she was legit, Arabic or not.

Then she came up to the wedding party table to give a personal dance for the groom! I wanted to crawl under a rug. But there was no way to hide.

I would have preferred to be anywhere else, but I got up the gumption to get on my feet and give my finest imitation of an Arabic man dancing with a belly dancer, as if it was the most natural thing to do in the world. It must have been hysterical.

Dianne and I with our belly dancer.

When she was done with her dance with me, the belly dancer was encouraged to dance with Mr. Shihadi, the instigator of this whole charade. So Mr. Shihadi got up, with her persuasion, and he did a little Arabic shuffle across the dance floor.

Mr. Shihadi and the belly dancer at our wedding reception.

I didn’t enjoy it at the time, but in a way, I was happy to have that belly dancer at our wedding. It made our wedding impossible to forget. That’s for sure. But it also made me feel a little bit less like a fish out of water. In a way, we were both trying to fit into the Arabic culture. She was embracing an Arabic dance, and I was embracing an extended family of Arab descent.

After the belly dancer left the reception, we finished our dinner, and we visited each table of wedding guests, one by one. Then we sliced our cake and served dessert. Then the Arabic band played some music for the traditional Palestinian dance; the Debka… three steps to the right, turn, hop, skip, repeat.

When the Arabic band and the dinner were done, our DJ took over the festivities, starting with a dance for the bride and groom. We danced to the song “Beautiful” by Gordon Lightfoot.

Then there was a Mother-Son and Father-Daughter dance, which we did to Shower the People, by James Taylor.

Then there was an insane mixture of music ranging from songs we requested to the Chicken Dance and the Electric Slide. Lots of semi-inebriated celebrants took to the floor.

Every now and then a ballad would be played, allowing for folks to slow down and catch their breath. The Wind Beneath My Wings came on and we joined the crowd to slow dance around the dance floor.

Then, a little bit later, it came on again. I thought, “That’s strange. Why is he playing it again?”.

Then it came on again… and again… and again. It seemed like it was the default tune for any pause in the rotation of songs.

I started to cringe each time the song began: “It must have been cold there in my shadow…” I started to hate the DJ, and Bette Midler, with each refrain of “Did you ever know that you’re my hero…”

I’ll never know what possessed the DJ to play Bette Midler over and over again. I mean, after all, it’s about a woman that dies when she’s still young. It’s maudlin. It’s saccharine. It was just too much.

If you ever have a wedding or an event with recorded music or a master of ceremonies, choose your DJ like your life depends upon it. They can either make the party swing, or they can make it a real drag. Maybe we should have stuck with the Arabic folk music instead.

At the end of the night, the music came to an end, we said our goodbyes; we got into our white Acura Integra, decorated by a white water-soluble marker — “Just Married” — and we headed to a hotel suite for our first night of wedded bliss.

The bliss was getting a full night of sleep, and then getting to sleep in late. We got some rest and recovery before we headed out of town for the rest of our Honeymoon.

A Union of Spirits

Our wedding was literally a wedding of cultures, equally influenced by American traditions and Palestinian customs. We had heartfelt folk music by Noel Paul Stookey, rapturous classical music by Schubert, and the Byzantine chant of the Greek Orthodox Church.

We had ululation, affirmation, undulation, and celebration— Palestinian expressions of joy… Greek Orthodox vows of commitment… gyrations of Arabic dance… and the festivities of a marital union.

A wedding is heavily planned and choreographed, fraught with anxiety and emotion. It can seem like the longest day of your life, but when thoughtfully done, there are moments that resonate with each of the participants. There is something for everyone.

In the words of my favorite song, “…whenever two or more of you are gathered in His name, there is love.”

…there is Love.

Dianne and her father - June 23, 1991.

Footnotes:

*“While Christianity in the West developed in lands which knew the legal and moral philosophy of Ancient Rome, Eastern Christianity developed in lands which knew the Semitic and Hellenistic cultures. While the West was concerned with the Passion of Christ and the sin of man, the East emphasized the Resurrection of Christ and the deification of man. While the West leaned toward a legalistic view of religion, the East espoused a more mystical theology. Since the Early Church was not monolithic, the two great traditions existed together for more than a thousand years until the Great Schism divided the Church. Today, Roman Catholics and Protestants are heirs to the Western tradition, and the Orthodox are heirs to the Eastern tradition.”

*https://www.saint-katherines.org/about-orthodoxy/

Wearing White

{Prompt: What did you wear when younger that mortifies you now?}

Fashion

I guess I’ve been around long enough to talk about the embarrassing fashion trends of the past, but it’s kind of hard not to love the way we embraced of psychedelic fashion in the 70s or the Hip Hop culture of the 80s.

And I was there, wearing striped, plaid, or swirling patterns in the 70s along with my classmates at elementary school.

And later, wearing long tube socks and baseball shirts with record album artwork in the mid-70s.

And even later, wearing muscle pants and tank tops during the Jane Fonda inspired aerobics movement in the early 80s. Or Cosby sweaters and pleated pants in the mid 80s.

There is a beautiful school picture of 9 or 10 year-old me in 1969 or 1970, wearing a beige, orange, and brown striped shirt, with long pointed collars, that could only have been worn when hippies were fighting for peace and love.

And I’m wearing a light brown home-made vest — only one of many hand-sewn articles of clothing fashioned from a pattern by my mom.

I’m standing in front of a pile of books and an apple, with a library themed back-drop. I actually love the picture, but having the apple there kind of irks me. As if I was that 1950s era kid that would bring an apple for the teacher. Yuck!

4th or 5th grade school photo.

Another photo, in the 70s shows a sproutly young adult wearing tube socks and short shorts — possibly on the way to the basketball court, or just back from a game. Other photos, in the 80s, show glimpses of a young man in muscle pants (I had at least three pairs) or wearing a colorful rugby shirt (I had many).

(Me and Mike in 1980s fashion: Baseball shirts (Kansas & Willie Nelson), Short shorts, Adidas shoes, and high tube socks)

I don’t find any of those photos to be mortifying. Actually, I’m a little proud of those times when I embraced the fashion trends with such abandon. It’s when I was fully immersed in a time, in pop culture, that those crazy styles were captured on film.

Why should I be ashamed of being ‘hip’… or ‘groovy’… or ‘cool’… or even ‘bodacious’ (even though I was really none of those things)? It’s when you aren’t thinking about the camera; when the oddest clothes seem like a natural choice, that you are living in the moment… living your best life.

Wearing muscle pants for MS150 ride, circa 1990.

Uniforms

The clothes I find to be the most embarrassing were the ones that you might consider to be a ‘costume’, or a ‘uniform’. My khaki boy scout uniform would seem too goody-two-shoes today (but I sure loved those merit badges and the metal belt clips).

My baseball uniform always felt like it belonged on someone else. I wore the mid-length sleeves and pin-stripe pants of the baseball outfit, but I sure didn’t deserve them. Of all the sports that I played, I was most ill prepared for baseball.

And my marching band uniform comes closest to being an embarrassment to anything I’ve ever worn. It featured a felt cavalier hat (spray-painted black), high waisted dress pants, and a gold satin cumberbund.

Or maybe I just felt embarrassed to be there. Imagine a skinny teenager, with oily hair, wispy facial hair, and zits, dressed in costume, with a pair of cymbals. Who really likes the way they look at age 15, when they’re lanky and awkward? I know I didn’t.

Broughton marching band costume - not as bad as I thought.

The White Lab Jacket

However, the worst — the most abhorrent uniform, to my thinking, is the short, waist-length white lab coat. That’s right. The short white lab jacket is the worst.

Although a doctor’s white jacket might seem like a sign of competence — nay, of prestige — to an outside observer, it is nothing of the sort, particularly to those who work in the hospital setting.

To be clear, lab coats come in varying lengths, which when worn according to the protocol of a teaching hospital, range from waist length (for medical students), to hip length (for residents), to knee length (for attendings). And the length of your jacket is a clear indication of your abilities.

The short, “introductory” lab coat of the medical student, is the hardest to stomach — the hardest to wear. It’s pretty clear, to the student, at this point in their apprenticeship, that the lab coat is undeserved, and more of a warning to the trained medical staff that surround you. If you’re a nurse on a ward, and an aspiring doctor in a waist length lab coat comes by; you probably already know more about medicine than their academically saturated brain has yet absorbed.

And if a resident in a hip length coat gives a medical order, it still wouldn’t be wrong to regard it with suspicion. Medical specialists, called “attendings”, enjoy the status of a full length uniform, coat tails draping to their knees — every bit as elegant as a full length tuxedo.

(2010 Publicity photo for Village Family Practice)

Sidenote: Non-physicians also wear lab coats; and if you, in fact, are working in a lab, then you are a credit to the scientific profession, and you deserve applause, but if you wear a white coat in the service of some pseudoscientific or medically-adjacent profession, then you should be tarred and feathered.

Not only the length, but also the quality of the white lab coat changes over time. In the beginning, it is of low quality. Only the most rudimentary of stitching, coarse fabric, and a universal fit.

It is only adorned with the references and gear that can be stuffed in the pockets. Usually the small upper left hand pocket contains a pen and a pen light, and sometimes a list of phone numbers, or a small plastic-card-reference of lab values or advanced CPR protocols. The “Intern Pocket Survival Guide” might fit in the small pocket, and “The Sanford Guide to Antimicrobial Therapy” might fit, also.

The lower right pocket would contain your more comprehensive on-call guides, such as the “Oxford American Handbook of Clinical Diagnosis” or the “Little, Brown Spiral Manual of Problem-Oriented Medical Diagnosis”. The lower left hand pocket usually held a clinical rotation-specific guide to the most common medical conditions for that specialty. It could be swapped out… a pocket guide to psychiatry… or obstetrics… or pediatrics… or surgery… depending upon the need.

Once the pockets were balanced with medical books and plastic algorithm cards, the stethoscope or the dictaphone could be added in any space that remained. Over time, the stethoscope invariably was relocated to wrap around the neck of the doctor in training, partly to make more room in the pockets below, but also to give the illusion of medical capability and readiness.

As the jacket grows in length it also becomes embroidered, first with the doctor’s name, then with the name and specialty, or with the name and the practice. The longer the white blazer, the more buttons are required — each button added as if it was a badge of experience or a medal of honor.

The longer jackets require slits in the sides, so that one can stand with one’s hands, passing through the jacket seams, into the pants pockets beneath. It is the height of posing, for a doctor to stand with one hand in a pocket, while leaning with the other arm against a display monitor of patient’s vitals.

These long, flowing knee-length jackets add the same action hero panache as a flowing cape, or a black trench coat from The Matrix.

When I completed residency, I wore long white jackets, with sturdy inseams, and a properly tailored fit, for almost 30 years. I no longer had the apprehension and the anxiety of an intern in a short white lab jacket.

I assembled a collection of button shirts and silk ties. I had respectable beige polyester pants and maroon leather Rockport shoes. I pretty fully exemplified the appearance and demeanor of a board certified family physician.

If there were fashion trends in the last 30 years, I most certainly missed them. I was committed to a doctorly “look” that reflected my feelings of integrity and empathy.

But when I retired, I left the fashion and accessories of the medical profession behind.

I began wearing the most outrageous outfit so far…

for cycling…

skin tight Lycra.

But that’s another story.

(Trying to reach the top of Grandfather Mountain in 2014.)

(On the way to Mount Mitchell, a few years later.)

A Zen State of Mindfulness

{Prompt: Did you have any pets growing up?}

In my lifetime, I’ve had four cats and four dogs. The cats were all short-hairs: Pit-a-Pat, Charlie, Salinger, and Orion. As far as I know, Pit-a-Pat and Charlie were there when I was born. Cats were just a part of the family.

Salinger and Orion, however, were all mine. Salinger’s name obviously comes from J. D. Salinger, who certainly deserves to be honored with a naming. His name also rolls off the tongue, so it seemed like a good choice.

Salinger and me - circa 1989.

Salinger liked to live outside, probably a good idea when I was away at the hospital, doing rotations in medical school. Once I came home and a neighbor saw me with Salinger, and asked if that was my cat. It turns out that Salinger had made other friends in the apartment complex. He had been getting handouts from half the tenants.

Salinger, in his element.

Salinger was my cat when I met Dianne, and he was a little bit of a wildcat. Dianne tried to pet him and play with him, but he loved to scratch and bite so much, that he was risky to play with. That was less of a problem with Orion, who was adopted as a kitten.

Orion came into my life later, when we had a family — Dianne, two girls, and a dog (more on her later). Orion’s full name is D’artagnan Orion Gallup — “DOG”. Get it? That name was the result of a group family effort. And it should serve as a cautionary tale. Never outsource a long-lasting naming decision to other people—no matter how much you love them.

His real name — the one I prefer — is ‘Orion’, a particularly genius nod to the Siamese cat in the first Men in Black movie. In Men in Black, it is ‘Orion’ who carries the whole of the Orion galaxy affixed to his cat collar. (He’s the ‘MacGuffin’ of the whole movie.) In real life, Orion mostly responds to ‘Kitty’, although, now, being mostly deaf, he only responds to exaggerated hand-gestures and his infrared perception of perfectly heated sleeping concavities (i.e. laps).

Jasmine and Samantha cuddling young Orion.

Now, on to the dogs. (I love cats; but let’s face it… they don’t really need human interaction.) My dogs were named Lindy, Scooby, Snickers, and Maggie.

I had a hand in picking out each of these dogs from the time they were pups—meaning three exciting trips to the animal shelter, where seemingly life-and-death decisions were made. Taking only one puppy felt like leaving the rest in a state of peril — at risk of being “put down.” Even on the last trip, to the Collie breeder in Kenansville, we had to choose between one of the two females, all very likely to be adopted. Maggie was picked, on the spur of the moment, in large part because she had an easy-to-identify spot on her tail. If not for that black spot, another dog might be ‘Maggie’ right now.

Lindy’s story

My father and I picked up Lindy at the SPCA in South Raleigh, and she was named for a residential street (Linden Street) that we passed by on the way home. She was believed to be part beagle and part fox terrier.

Lindy and me - circa 1979.

She was a great source of solace following my father’s death, and she was a wonderful dog. She naturally became immortalized in cyberspace, as her name served as my primary computer password, for years and years.

Lindy, beside an incandescent lamp. 

Although I helped pick Lindy from the shelter, she ended up living with my Mom when I went to the School of Science and Math, and then to college. I didn’t see much of Lindy in her later years.

Lindy and Mom - circa 1979.

Snickers’ story

Snickers was a beautiful puppy, with the Merle colored markings of an Australian Shepherd, and the black and brown color of a Snickers bar, from whence she got her name. She had the energy of a herding dog — often nipping at our heels — and much was required to burn off that excess mischievousness.

Snickers was our dog when we were both working full-time — me, at Garner Family Practice, and Dianne, at Duke Clinical Research Institute. While Dianne and I were working, we often sent Snicker to “Doggie Day Care” to make her a little less rambunctious. Unfortunately, in her youth, Snickers suffered fractures to both of her front legs, when she leapt after a tennis ball, and over an embankment, onto the asphalt parking lot below. Although she recovered from the injury, after surgery at the NC State Vet School, she was a little more temperamental than our other dogs until the day she died.

Samantha and Jasmine wrangling Snickers.

Scooby’s story

Scooby is the dog that I remember most fondly. She was adopted by Dianne and me around the time we were engaged. It may be cliché, but she was our first baby. We picked her from a skittering litter of puppies — from a playpen at the animal shelter north of downtown Chapel Hill.

At this time, Dianne was living in an apartment complex in Carrboro with her roommate, Barb, and her roommate’s huge, cuddly part-Malamute dog, named Otis. So… Scooby came back to a two-bedroom apartment to live with Dianne, Barb, and Otis, with frequent visits by me and my cat, Salinger. There was no shortage of play and affection during her puppyhood!

Scooby was a “Collie mix”, but she was mostly white and tan in coloring, and a bit taller than a true collie or border collie. However, like a well-trained herder, she liked to go about 15 feet ahead of us on a walk, then turn sideways and look back to check on our progress. It was quite normal for her to keep tabs on our whereabouts, wherever we were.

She traveled with us from Chapel Hill to Pittsburgh, where I bitterly remember taking her for rather short, brisk walks in the winter, down an unevenly paved alleyway near our back door, left onto a side street, and then back to our house on the corner of Beechwood and Wilkins. This walk was particularly unpleasant — nay, impossible — on the day we had a snowstorm that left 24 inches of snow. On top of everything else, this walk was often in the dark, before or after a shift at the hospital where I was working more than full-time, during residency.

But her life wasn’t too bad — too housebound. We sometimes took her to Frick Park, where in the pre-internet days, we somehow heard of an unleashed doggy play-time in the park. (Some of our first dog parent friends were a neurologist and her husband, who owned a playful Dalmatian.) This play time was our first introduction to group dog play, and to the unique — sometimes eccentric — character of various pet owners.

It’s kind of amazing that the dogs were allowed to play unleashed and unfenced in a section of the park. It gives you an idea of just how expansive Frick Park must be, to allow a whole section to be dedicated to free dog play. There must have been a lot of people who had to rethink their walking path, when they saw all the dogs frolicking on the hillside.

Scooby followed us to Columbia, South Carolina, where our most common walk was around the pan-flat streets of our suburban neighborhood. It was on the outskirts of town, about a mile from Fort Jackson, where it wasn’t unusual to here the sounds of artillery exercises.

We also would go for a walk at Sesquicentennial Park, where the sandhills of the Carolinas can only support the growth of the aptly named Scrub pine. (I don’t think any pine tree is particularly majestic; but the scrub pine is distinctly unmajestic in comparison to the Longleaf pine or the Loblolly pine.)

Scooby was the unwilling nanny for our twin girls when they were born in 1994, and she must have given me many a forlorn look while I was feeding sugar water to Jasmine, or changing the position of the “Bili-blankets” on both of our early arrivals.

From Columbia, we moved to Sanford, in North Carolina, and an aging Scooby frequently joined us when we went to play volleyball on the sand courts at OT Sloan Park. And then to Cary where we played on the broad, grassy field at Lake Crabtree County Park, near RDU. Jasmine and Samantha were often nearby, in a shared, teal-and-baby-blue playpen. I don’t really know how we got through a game without interruption, but somehow it worked. More than likely there were interruptions, but if there were, our volleyball friends never seemed upset. Those were good times.

Not long before Scooby passed away, I decided to take her with me on a trip to the Outer Banks. I think we went from lighthouse to lighthouse (Currituck, Bodie, Hatteras, and Ocracoke), getting some nice photographs, and basically spending some time together to enjoy the smell of the salt water on the ocean breezes, and the feel of the sand beneath our feet and our paws.

She had to be euthanized shortly after that, and thankfully she died in our company, surrounded by her loving family. As she was quietly sleeping, from a sedative, the veterinarian gave us the room. I pushed the final dose of medicine, and as she stopped breathing, I lost my composure, and I felt hot tears rolling down my cheeks.

Dianne and I remembered the excitement we had when we picked her out during college, years before, when we were still young and foolish. In contrast, by the time that Scooby died, we had full-time jobs, children, and responsibilities. We had gone through the hardest years of our parenthood. And we had been through the wringer with medical concerns (including major surgery). We had grown up so much during Scooby’s lifetime that she was hard to let go. We’ll never forget the magic of the “Scooby years”.

Little Scooby in her pink collar — keeping a close eye on me.

Maggie’s story

If we hadn’t chosen Scooby at the pound years before, we might not have chosen Maggie years later. When I retired, in 2019, I made a list of the things that I might do with my time, and after six or more years without a pet, I thought retirement might be the perfect time to give a dog the proper amount of devotion — walking, training, and playing with them all day.

Dianne and I debated the merits of various medium-sized dog breeds, and given our experience with the “collie mix” we had before, we decided to see what a full breed collie had to offer. I think it’s fair to say that Maggie exceeded our expectations, being the most affectionate, obedient, athletic, and beautiful dog we’ve ever had.

The only downside is that everyone of a certain age has a story about a collie that they knew as a youngster. And they want to tell you about it!

She is the smartest dog, no doubt — so smart that we often have to figure out who is playing mind games with whom. Are we training her, or is she training us? I’m sure it’s a little of both… but, you know what… I’m Ok with that.

Maggie’s story isn’t done, and our story isn’t done, either. She hasn’t seen us through the kind of trials and tribulations that our other pets have. She hasn’t suffered from an injury or absence or neglect. Perhaps you could say she is pampered — living the life of Reilly, so to speak — but that’s probably for the best.

After a while, the challenges… the vicissitudes of life can be exhausting. After a while you just want to sit down on the side of a chair and rub the really soft curly fur behind your dog’s ears, or laugh at her expression when she does a head tilt of bewilderment (like when your wife is screaming at the Washington Redskins defense), or just reach a Zen state of mindfulness as you and your dog walk along a wandering path, a path into the woods, filled with tall loblolly pines.

Steve and a young Maggie at a brewery in Durham.