Angels On My Shoulder

I’ve already admitted my hopeless addiction to med blogs. I read them for many reasons – filling my basic Peeping Tom needs, to have a great laugh, to hear about the ever-changing and politicizing of medical care, and to learn.

Their technical information has no rival, and I depend on this to keep my own characters real. Face it, watching Grey’s Anatomy for medical authenticity would be as big a disservice to my writing as my giving up eating Twinkies would be to the Hostess’ bottom line. I depend on these good docs’ stories to prevent me from looking like an idiot – a feat I can accomplish with my eyes closed.

When I sit down to write, my med blog buddies are little angels on my shoulder. Sid is the doc to go to when you need to know how to do an operation or what it feels like to hold an organ in your hand. From the laying of knife on skin to the poetry of a surgeon’s thoughts when opening up a patient – Sid’s your man. In fact, I have a folder in my writing folder labeled “Sid’s Tomes,” and it consists of bits and pieces of his blog I don’t want to forget when I’m writing.

Panda…a very intelligent man and a wonderful writer. I’ve told him that should the doc thing fail to work out for him he’d better become a writer. He’s an interesting mix. His anti-integrative medicine position is of particular value in helping me validate one of my main characters, but his refusal to open his mind a squidge frustrates me as well. Such is life, right? I admire him nonetheless. Panda’s a straight-shooter and his insights to the ever-growing political arena of medicine are of great value to my plot development.

Fingers is a wonderful angel whose stories of the ED at Crack City Hospital are beyond belief. Fingers is adept at showing extreme irony, humor, abject anger, and frustration. I’ll miss him greatly if he ever closes his blog. In fact, I’ll probably yank out a black armband and play dirges all day long.

I found M.D.O.D. fairly recently, and they’re fast becoming a major angel on my shoulder as well. They’re great for writing about the inane and amazing.

Medblog Addict. Okay, she offers zippo to my writing. She simply makes me laugh my fool head off. This helps a great deal when I have a tough scene to write. I’d love to have a pitcher of margaritas with her. She’s as crazy as I am.

They and others sit on my shoulder and whisper gently in my ear when I’m writing a scene. “No, Lynn, the patient wouldn’t be conscious if you’ve got his chest cracked open.” Okay, even I’m not that big of an idiot to write a scene like that. It’s the subtle things, like when my main character talks to a group of med students about what it’s like to do the initial incision. These angels help give my characters a soul, and I adore each and every one of them.

Serious Schmerious

I’ve had a couple really good posts started regarding the integrative medicine debate, but I’m feeling too saucy right now to finish them. Talking about serious issues requires serious thoughts, and I’m not in the mood for serious. For the first time in my little life, I’m an award-winning author. Despite how this must sound – like an ego driven scud – I’m savoring the moment because a group of important people decided my work was the best, and, damn, it feels real nice.

But it’s more than the accolades over my style, dialog and plot. It’s knowing that this story will be read and people will have the opportunity to think about medicine in a whole different way. I wrote it, but it’s Kim’s and Erik’s story. Sure, they’re fictional, though any writer will tell you they feel as real as your best friend, but the idea of them is very real and being played out in hospitals all over America.

So I’m going to go to New York and accept my gold medal. I have a fancy schmancy new outfit that even my 20 yr.-old daughter approves of. I’m going to hug my hubby and my two kids, accept the back-slapping "atta-girl" from our company's distributor, drink some champagne and have a great time. And after the long week of showing at the BEA is over, I’m going to come home and finish Book 2.

Final Results for the IPPYs

Wow. Just plain wow. I won an IPPY.

Donovan’s Paradigm won an IPPY.

The IPPYs are the big kahuna of the independent publisher’s award competitions, and I won the Gold in my category of Visionary Fiction. I’m still in shock about it all. When I think of the journey this book and I have taken and the crap I took to get to this point, I get a little faint. From scam publisher, to fighting for my rights, to rewriting it, to republishing it, to an IPPY – this book has done it all. And it’s all Mom’s fault. She’s the one who told me I should write a book.
Ma, sorry it wasn’t the book you thought I’d write, but I think we did okay. J I’m drinkin’ to Kim and Erik tonight!

What the hell Visionary Fiction? “Visionary fiction” is fiction in which the expansion of the human mind drives the plot.

What’s really cool is that these guys throw the very best parties to boot – first class all the way. New York, here I come.

Integrative Medicine - Quakery or Viable Inclusion?

Playing devil’s advocate in a work of fiction is a luxury because you can allow your characters to assume all kinds of biases. This luxury is also a double-edged sword because there’s always the risk of the writer’s personal bias to sneak inside. I kept that in mind when I read Panda Bear M.D.’s blog about integrative medicine. Reading his words, I thrust my arm in the air and yelled, “Yes! I so got the part of my character right.” I was thrilled. I’d nailed the arguments against integrative medicine perfectly. I wanted a controversial and substantive plot and couldn’t have chosen a better subject than integrative modality’s advance into allopathic medicine.

But then I lowered my arm and sobered up. Panda’s words cut into me like a knife, and I felt like he was calling me a fraud and nutjob. I’ll accept that I may be a nutjob, but I won’t accept that I’m a fraud. I respect the hell out of Panda’s vast intelligence, his writing skills, and his thorough treatment of every subject he discusses. Reading his blog is one of the highlights of my day. I’m not upset that he hates integrative medicine –that’s his right, and I’d never try to dissuade him or anyone else.

My sorrow stems from the fact that he refuses to entertain the notion that integrative care could have some validity, and he lumps virtually all integrative approaches into the same basket – which I’ll also grant is his right. But is it correct to do so? Are all forms of integrative medicine bad or are some modalities actually good? Many docs’ opinions are that none of these types of healers make a difference and therein lies what I see as a gaping hole in medicine. Is there no wiggle room to be had?

I know my fictional character of Erik Behler offered zero wiggle room in his views and took every opportunity to ridicule integrative medicine into the ground. His lack of respect was something I needed (and knew existed) to maintain balance in my story about two passionate docs who have vastly differing opinions about medicine.

My own beliefs are that anything leaning too far to any particular side excludes potentially important and legitimate arguments. How can medicine deal in absolutes when we don’t have all the answers? Should we blithely agree that docs and scientists have a totalitarian view with respect to healing and no one else is allowed a viable opinion? And if so, who decides what’s viable? Do docs really have all the unimpeachable answers on how and why the body heals? Are we convinced beyond the shadow of a doubt that the mind plays no role whatsoever in healing? If not, how do we know this? Just because we can’t measure it doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. If that’s the case, how does this compare to what cardiologists have been saying for years – stress kills. Is that not a mind/body connection?

And what of those cases when medicine loses the fight and the patient should have died, was supposed to die, and didn’t? One of my doc friends calls those BTFOOM cases (Beats The Fuck Out Of Me). Is it fair to assume that there are no other factors other than medicine at play in terms of healing? A few of my doc friends admit that a patient’s strong family ties or that inexplicable will to live help supersede death’s best efforts – they simply didn’t have the answers. They agreed that there are times when remission happens and isn’t because of anything they’ve done. Cardiovascular surgeon, Dr. Mehmet Oz, wrote Healing From the Heart , and it talks about these enigmatic aspects of healing.

Most scientists’ derision about integrative care is that it can’t be tested under a microscope, and they’re right. Is it unreasonable to require this? After all, medicine has these standards, so why shouldn’t integrative medicine shoulder the same burden? My answer is that you’re dealing with something intangible, like love. The only way to quantify its benefits (or lack thereof) is in patient results. But because it can’t be measured, does this make the treatment any the less potent or practical? Does this mean the possibility of healing through holistics doesn’t exist? It’s like being patriotic. You can’t do a CAT scan and say, “Yep, there it is, unequivocal proof that patriotism exists…it’s right next to the diaphragm.” There are some things we accept on faith because enough people experience the feeling. It’s part of our paradigm. But what if the paradigm needs to be updated to ponder and possibly accept previously ridiculed ideas?

I can’t argue on the same level with Panda because he’s a scientist and I’m a writer. Sure, I’ve done a ton of research and, in fact, came into researching integrative medicine with anything but an open mind. My skepticism was the fulcrum to both sides of the integrative seesaw. It was never my goal to write an agenda story, but to present two compelling arguments and allow the reader to make up their own minds. That I wrapped the whole thing up inside two appealing characters was icing on the cake. I sought out the most strange, weird ass integrative modality I could find, and this led me to Reiki – I can see Panda rolling his eyes now – and I came out so impressed with it that I ended up studying it into Mastership.

After a few Reiki sessions (if I was going to write about it, I had to experience it), I found that I couldn’t tolerate my medications. This was like flipping a light switch. Within a month of those sessions, I was off my meds. Blood tests proved that I was fine. Seven years later, I’m still fine and off meds.

My doc’s reaction? “BTFOOM.”

Docs ask for proof, as they wisely should. I have none to offer other than I’m healthier than I was before and am off all meds. In fact, I have nothing of persuasive value other than I feel better than I’ve ever felt before. If I get sick, the first place I go is my doc. I’d never give up going to doctors. If I needed surgery, I’d have it. My beliefs are that of true integration. I think it’s important for patients to have a participatory hand in their healing.

So many times people get really sick and they’re whisked off to chemo or radiation. The docs are busy concentrating on the tumor. But who’s concentrating on the patient? Patients need to have a participatory role regarding their convalescence, and this is where integrative medicine comes into play. Have the chemo, the radiation. But also have the Reiki, hypnotherapy, biofeedback or green tea. In order to have a healthy body you have to have a healthy mind. I’d like to think that given these parameters, even Panda could find some wiggle room.

I’m not trying to change anyone’s mind. My sole intent is to offer what I hope is a balanced response to a controversial issue.

IPPY Semi-Finalist? Moi?

I just found out my book is a semi-finalist in the IPPYs. I entered several of our stronger new titles ages ago, one of which is also a semi-finalist (Body Trauma), and tossed mine in at the last moment on a lark. Wow. I think I'll go howl at the moon, drink some wine and hug my husband. He's the one who would take a dirty dish out of my hand or take over the laundry and tell me to go write.

This is a thought-provoking book as well as controversial, and it was always my hope that people would be enlightened as well as entertained. But it's a long thing - 454 pages - and I never dreamed it would catch the notice of a group of judges. When I got the notice yesterday, I sat back and ran my fingers along the book cover and thanked my two characters. Kim, Erik, even though you two are always at each other's throats, you guys rock.

The One That Didn't Get Away

Tomorrow is our anniversary. I know, Cinqo de Drinko…that’s what everybody tells me. When we set our wedding date 28 years ago, I had no idea it was anything special other than my father-in-law’s birthday. Hubby figured he’d never forget our anniversary that way. Smart man - he never has. I, on the other hand, have been caught with my synapses misfiring more than once. You know how hard it is to fake like you haven’t forgotten your anniversary? It’s not like I can accuse the dog of eating my anniversary card because hubby knows the dog would deposit it on his side of the bed.

People seem genuinely shocked that we’ve been married this long. I simply reply that the man is habit forming. Actually, it was an arranged marriage. By my dad. In Saudi Arabia. Okay, not really. In a prior lifetime hubby worked for my dad in Saudi Arabia back in the oil heyday. I came over for the summer, dad introduced us. Seemed pretty goofy to fly 10,000 miles to meet a guy from Long Beach – thirty miles from where I grew up. Anyway, we got married ten months later. I shudder when I think of the giant leap of faith I was taking. After all, three of those ten months then-boyfriend was still in The Land of Sand. But I figured my dad would never introduce me to an idiot.

I’ve blessed my dad’s interference with my love life for 28 years – he picked me a good ‘un. Hubby has always believed in me, respected my opinions and encouraged me to follow my dreams. He learned early on that I was missing the domestic goddess gene and could burn water at the drop of a hat. He’s made me laugh and made me think. I’m a better person for being married to this guy. And isn’t that what it’s all about?

Happy anniversary, Fredster. You rock.

Gee, guess my mind wasn’t blank after all.

There Are Times When Fiction Can’t Compete With Reality

I work very hard at insuring my writing is clever and realistic and understand there are some things that medicine simply cannot do – like a complete brain transplant. I leave the brain transplants to my science fiction writer friends. But every now and then reality dares to slam up against stuff that makes one roll their eyes and say, “Uh huh, yeah. Sure. Do I look like an idiot?”

Case in point: I was reading M.D.O.D.’s medblog today and he has this post about a benign ovarian tumor the size of a small car. Okay, I’m exaggerating, but not by much. What impressed me is that the woman had no idea this extra passenger was on board. I mean, come on, I can tell when I’ve eaten one too many Twinkies, so how does one miss a 65 pound tumor? It’s one of those nagging questions that haunt me at 2 am.

I’m not a doc, so I have the luxury of grossing out at the thought of massive amounts of blood and flotsam surrounding me. But I will admit to being damned intrigued as to how surgeons remove a behemoth like that. Do they use cherry pickers? I can see it now:

Dr. Cutsalot: “Okay, Bart, y’all back up that thar cherry picker…come on, boy, don’t be shy, it ain’t gonna jump out and beg to marry your next ‘o kin.”

I’m in awe of the human body’s tolerance levels that can allow such an invasion of something that clearly has no business being there. I’m equally in awe of docs who can remove it. But, boyo, I’d give my stash of Twinkies to hear their conversation.

"Why Do You Write?"

It was an interesting question that someone asked me the other day as she bought my book. She was standing in front of me at the checkout line at the bookstore and had my book in her arm. While reading the back of the cover, she happened to look back at me. Getting an eyeful, she knit her eyebrows and looked back at the book. While she did the double take, I tried very hard not to wet my pants. I mean, come on, how many of us have that kind of thing happen? I'm not John Lescroart (my hero) or anything. It was a huge honor, and all I could think about doing is rushing home to call my mother.

My immediate thought to her question was to get all self-important and hand out some esoteric pile of dribble. But then I stopped because I could see she really wanted to know – not in a challenging way – but a, “I really want to know what drives someone to sit on their butterks for hours on end and bang out a story.”

I told her the truth – that I had a story burning inside me that wouldn’t go away, much like the tax man. But I went home and really thought about it. Why do I write? And why do I write what I write?

I had the basic groundwork for my first book for about ten years. Why did I chose docs, especially surgeons? I have no flipping idea. I know it’s an admiration thing since docs have this mystique thing going on by the merits of their jobs. To this day, it still boggles my mind to think that a surgeon can open someone up, rummage around, cut and snip a few things and close the person back up. And they live! I mean, I always have left-over pieces when I finish a project, don’t you? I’d be the type that would close up and discover I forgot to put the liver back in.

It’s a noble profession. Despite patients who hurl invectives that would peel paint off the wall, docs still go in and do the job. I have to admit that in my day job, if a submitting writer is a total snot bag to me, I have the luxury of finding a rejection slip pretty darn fast. So this world of walking dichotomies intrigued me, and I wanted to get inside their heads to see what they feel – if they feel. I’ve been very pleasantly surprised and honored to be allowed into their world to see their vulnerabilities, their fears, their heartbreaks, and their triumphs. Because of their openness, I was able to create a foundation upon which to build the story that had been burning inside for a long time.

Gee, I suppose in retrospect it would have been easier to simply point the woman in the bookstore to my blog, huh?

Photo: Special thanks to Dave Page, M.D., author of Body Trauma: The Writer’s Guide to Wounds and Injuries. He returns all the body parts where they belong, too.

Keep Your Calculator Off My Stethoscope

“People need to take a close look at why this physician is frustrated if they want to understand the major threats to quality medical care in the US.”

I saw this comment on my blog, and it really jarred me. Of course, I knew this to be true – that docs are growing more and more frustrated every day – but when I took this simple remark down to its lowest common denominator it scared the crap out of me. We are the most powerful nation in the world, and our lives are being eroded by the bureaucracy – those bean counters with calculators in their pockets and accounting degrees on their walls.

I’m not a doc, but I write at great length about them, their lives, their vulnerabilities, what makes them tick. Because of this, I have a great affinity for their ability to tuck their uphill battles in their front pockets and get on with the job of helping people. But it shouldn’t be any great surprise that at some point those front pockets get too stuffed, and the frustrations come pouring out. What is the next move; continue on or quit? It’s an idea I’ve given thought about inflicting on one of my main characters because its social relevance affects us all.

Charity Doc, in his goodbye post (though I’m beyond giddy that he’s resumed posting again) said that he’d had it with being told how to treat his patients. If this is going to continue, and there’s no reason to believe that it won’t, what’s to become of the quality of our medical care? Will this be a case where only the clinically insane decide to become doctors while the truly smart ones opt for occupations that allow for more autonomy?

And what of us? The patients? Are we destined to be butchered or misdiagnosed by those with fewer firing synapses? From where I’m sitting, those who have their fingers on the carotid artery of health care are tying docs’ hands and forcing them out of their jobs. Those of us who have viable brain cells understand that the future picture is growing bleak. You cannot continuously kill the cash cow and expect it to continue to give milk.

At any rate, after I finish Book 3, I’m going to revisit this idea. And you know what saddens me the most? I’ll have a very ripe research pool.

Brevity At Its Best

As writers, we’re always told that an economy of words is most effective. This highlights what I mean:

A college class was told they had to write a short story using as few words as possible. The story had to contain the following criteria:

1. Religion
2. Sexuality
3. Mystery

The A+ student out of the entire class wrote:

“Good God, I’m pregnant; I wonder who did it.”

Classic.

Medicine Takes A Loss

I’m so sad today. In the course of drinking my morning cuppa, I saw that one of my favorite medbloggers, Charity Doc, has called it quits. His posts made me laugh and cry as he detailed his life as head of ED at Crack City Medical Center. He’s leaving for the most tragic of all reasons – the hospital administrators are telling him how to practice medicine.

The day a doctor is told what tests he/she is allowed to run by someone wearing a suit and calculator is the day we should all start asking ourselves, “Who is John Galt?” Ayn Rand, I’d like to think you’re turning over in your grave to watch our country wither from within. The engineers who work todilute everything that made America strong have taken over without firing a single shot. Dollars and power now take precedence over human value.

As a writer of medical fiction, I wonder if future generations will pick up my book and wonder what a surgeon or an ER doc is. I suddenly feel as irrelevant as Charity Doc now feels.

Charity, you don’t know me from Adam, but I’ll miss you. Worse, yet, your patients will miss you. Thank you for touching my life with your humor, pain and wit.

Where Do You Want To Be If You Get Sick?

I read an excellent article in my paper this morning that simplified this bumbling, short-sighted behemoth known as Universal Health Care down to its lowest denominator. The author, Michael Tanner of the Cato Institute, was discussing John Edwards (known as The Breck Girl in our household) and how he used his wife’s press conference to espouse his platform that universal health care is the One Way. While my heart goes out to Mrs. Edwards and anyone who suffers from this cruel disease, I, like Mr. Tanner, believe that her condition would worsen far faster under her husband’s myopic system.

Sure, universal health care sounds really cool. The connotation is that virtually everyone (including illegal aliens- but that’s another post all together) will have complete and total health care for free – the ol’ no one gets left behind idea. In reality, nothing could be further from the truth. Anyone who has insurance – regardless of whether it’s a PPO or an HMO (referred to as Commie Care in our household) – knows that we’re subjected to the whims of the insurance companies. They decide arbitrarily whether to accept or deny certain drug and treatments, regardless of their doctor’s recommendations. They’ve taken much of the decision making away from doctor’s (always a dangerous idea) and put it in their bank accounts – but, again, that’s for another post. In short, the insurance companies are partaking in rationing on a very direct level. Our level.

It gets much more frightening when it’s put on an indirect level. Rationing also affects what Mr. Tanner calls global budgets. Instituting a global budget means that high-tech medical equipment isn’t no longer available, and this imposes longer waits for patients seeking treatment. In short, people die waiting.

Don’t believe me? Let’s look at the countries where universal health care is the new Messiah. In the U.S., most women survive breast cancer with fewer than *25% succumbing to the disease. In comparison, 46% British women die, 35% French women die, 31% German women die, 28% Australian and Canadian women die, and 46% New Zealand women die.

30% of Americans die from colon cancer while a staggering 74% British die. 62% New Zealanders die, 58% in France, 57% in Germany, 53% in Australia and 36% in Canada.

Look, the free market has always been the progeny of freedom and innovation, and it’s no different with medical care. Being free of price controls, the free market provides their own incentives that lead to new drugs and other medical technologies. *The U.S. is responsible for developing half the world’s major new medicines over the past twenty years and have played a major roll in 80% of the top medical advances of the past thirty years.

I’m not saying our system is perfect. Those who can’t afford health insurance are socked with huge medical bills, and too many people don’t have insurance. But ask yourself, where do you want to be if your personal shit hits the fan? Do you want a free market where you have the best treatment possible or are you one of those benevolent creatures who are willing to die for your beliefs?

*Figures taken from Michael Tanner of the Cato Institute

I Feel Another Boston Tea Party Coming On

I just heard from my niece, who is very upset about her professional future – the future she’s spent years to obtain. Her official title with the group of oncologists she works for is Nurse, but they refer to her Goddess In White because she’s so wonderful with their patients. They wouldn’t dream of hospitalizing one of their patients without her. Unfortunately, that is exactly what might happen.

The docs called a meeting of the entire staff to tell them they’re not sure if they’ll be able to stay in business. This, in spite of a thriving and well-respected practice. How is this possible? The insurance companies have once again LOWERED the amount of money they’ll receive, and it’s driving them out of business. Am I the only one who finds this incredible?

In a world where our medical health is dependent upon the bright minds of those dedicated to healing, does it make sense to drive them out of business? Insurance companies have grown with their power and arrogance and their philosophy seems to be, “If it weren’t for the damned doctors, we’d be even richer.” I guess they’d like to outlaw being sick as well.

With all the talk about insurance reform, has anyone brought up the fact that the docs are being financially hit below the belt? Does anyone give enough of a shit to stop this madness? Yes, I’m upset because it’s not just my medical ass on the line, but my mother, my dad, my aunt, some very dear friends, my husband.

It’s a world gone mad whereby we allow a group of non-medical people to band together and dictate how much a doctor is allowed to make. Remember good old Hillary saying how she felt doctors made too much money during her insurance takeover bid? Who is she to say who makes too much money? Is this freedom? Is this America?

In typical fashion, insurance companies and politicians are creating an irreversible situation, and I can see the day where there will be a hand-scrawled note on an empty hospital door that says, “Will the last doc left please turn out the lights?”

Why?

I understand the idea of overworked and underpaid.

I understand cranky.

I understand being bombarded with ceaseless questions.

I understand having questions and wishing someone would answer them.

I understand bad hair days.

I understand the desire to be outside playing in warm weather over being inside working.

I understand hoping someone will sit down and truly listen to my fears.

But what I will never, never, ever understand is a doctor yelling at my sweet 80-year-old mother who is sick with a bad chest cold and telling her that her time is up before abruptly walking out of the exam room.

Why does God create these people?

I hope this callous, indifferent doctor never has to experience the insulting shock of hearing, “I don’t care.”

I hope there's a special place in hell for doctors like this.

Quick Signing Update

While those are two hours I’ll never get back, I did sell a number of books and talked to some nice people. I also know where they stack the Reference books (it’s on the southwest corner) and the location of the bathroom (back of the store, near the kids’ books).

How do I know these pearls of wisdom? It was easier to find out rather than repeating over and over that I don’t freaking work there – I’m here for a book signing already! Don’t you see the stacks books sitting right in front of me? Yes, yes, right next to my picture and poster that says “Author Lynn Price Signing Today.” See the pen in my hand? It’s to autograph your copy should you be so inspired to lay down a few shekels.

Bah, nevermind. You’ll find books about oceanography across from the cash register.

Book Signings and Tiddlywinks

I have a signing today at our local Borders. I hate signings. It’s a personal angst with me. Stick me in front of a guaranteed audience, and I can talk the horns off a rhino. I give seminars on a regular basis and love playing the part of pathetic ham. However, the notion of “If You Write It, They Will Come” only plays well in Field of Dreams.

There are too many “What Ifs” in a book signing.

What if it’s too gorgeous a day (which it is today, dammit), and everyone would rather flood to the beach than go inside a bookstore?

What if no one is interested in my genre?

What if they simply aren’t interested?

What if they find my face so repugnant that they walk away in fear? Okay, I’m getting silly now.

I’ve seen well-known authors suffer dismal signings, so I know that it’s not just the unknowns who can suffer from Avoid Eye Contact-itis. Conversely, I’ve seen complete unknowns have incredible signings and sell out of every book. Oh, how I’d love to be those people. It all depends on the genre, the subject matter, and the ultimate whims of the public on any given day. I sell out at seminars. I sit on my ass at signings and play Tiddlywinks with the bookmarks and fling empty candy wrappers at patrons’ children when they’re not looking.

Sure, I meet some very interesting people who share an interest in the topic of my book. I’ve also met some gruff codgers who tell me they’re retired surgeons, and I’m full of beans. God, I love those guys. I tell them that mine isn’t an agenda book (I really hate those), but one of inviting perspective. “If I want perspective, I’ll go to church.” Best to just back away from those types and let them buy their guides to better interpersonal communication skills.

Okay, what this invariably comes down to is, “Am I Good Enough?” Of course, a crap signing isn’t really the proper litmus test in which to answer this question. The real test comes from sustainability. Are you reaching your audience? Local signings are good exposure, regardless of whether people show up or not. It’s about planting seeds. Just because someone didn’t buy the book when I was there doesn’t mean they won’t come back later and buy it. Or maybe the very relevant topic will come up in conversation, and someone will remember my face. Who knows?

But, if you happen to walk into your local bookstore and see some poor author sitting alone at a table playing Tiddlywinks with bookmarks and spitting empty candy wrappers at unsuspecting children, go up to them and give them a hug. Buy their book. Make their day.

Medical Care And The Buck-Who's In Charge of This Insane Asylum?

My daughter had jaw surgery last week to correct a congenital malformation. Her oral surgeon is the Chief of Surgery and has revolutionized jaw surgery by wrapping the jaw with an ice pack machine to cut way down on swelling. Our surgeon is pathological about insuring that machine is working at all times. Surgically speaking, she was in great hands. I know this surgeon well. I’m a vet with this particular surgery having watched my husband and son go through the same exact surgery a few years ago. They had excellent care back then.

However, things have changed, and not for the better.

After being stuck in Recovery for over five hours because another patient – one patient – suffered some minor post-surgical complications, my daughter was finally wheeled into ICU. I wondered if there was only one Recovery nurse back there.

The crack ICU nursing staff of years ago had given way to casual interest. They failed to plug in the ice machine. The portable battery pack had long since died and my daughter wasn’t receiving any ice. Thankfully the surgeon caught it during evening rounds, and I thought he was going to rip the nurse a new orifice for failing to insure the most important factor of her post-op care was working.

They also allowed the machine to run dry of water hours later. My daughter told me her face felt warm. I said something to the nurse, and she finally added more water. By this time, I wasn’t feeling confident about my daughter’s care and was grateful I was spending the night so I could make sure she was taken care of.

I was told that there was no way they’d allow me to stay. I told them that I was a vet at this and had stayed with hubby and son a few years ago. How nice, but not this time. Rules and all. I left my daughter with a huge knot in my stomach.

I just knew something was going to happen during the night. It did. They failed to give her the timely anti-nausea meds and she proceeded to get sick – a potentially dangerous situation for a jaw case. They let her sit in her own vomit for a while before finally cleaning her up. They didn’t cut her rubber bands to clean out her mouth and stitches, they didn’t change the bandages. Words can’t describe my anger. I did vent my spleen when the surgeon came in for morning rounds, and he was furious. I couldn’t get her home fast enough.

I mentioned ICU’s cavalier attitude to the office manager at the surgeon’s office, knowing she had just had hand surgery. I wondered if her care had been just as shoddy. It had. This hospital used to be so fabulous, what happened, I asked. A single sentence brought it all home. They were bought out by Tenet Corp. First thing they did was to fire all the experienced nurses because they made too much money and bring in less experienced nurses for far cheaper. Gee, great business decision. Wonder if anyone cares about quality anymore. Is this the way America’s medical care is headed? I feel my daughter’s care was compromised and had I not been vigilant, she may have spent 24 hours in ICU without ice on her jaw.

I’m bitter.

A Writer’s Inspiration – subtitle – John Lescroart Rocks

At some point in every writer’s career, they’re asked from whom they drew their inspiration, their writing style. I’ve seen many hum and haw for an answer. Mine’s a snap. John Lescroart rocks my literary world.

Ever since John hit the bookstores, I’ve been right there snapping up every book he cranked out. I’ve lost count of how many he’s written, and who cares? It all comes down to the fact that I’m a loyal fan.

When I began my own writing career I thought about what elements go into making a fan. It’s impossible to answer because reader tastes and criteria are too vast to put it into a nice package with a pretty bow.

For me, however, it’s all about the story and characters. I love lawyer books; Grisham, Tanenbaum, Martini, etc. After reading a bucket load of these books, the stories can sometimes run into each other. Their only saving grace is their character development, and Lescroart takes this to a higher art form. It’s a given that his plots are intriguing and sophisticated, but it’s his characters that keep the story alive. It’s what keep his books fresh, too.

I’ve seen many authors whose series begin to flatten out, as if they’ve tired of the game and their characters. Lescroart allows his main characters Dismas and Abe to mature, to grow, to evolve. This is a very shrewd move because the reader remembers those two characters long after they’ve finished the book. If you’ve read as many of John’s books as I have, you tend to even forget the plot. But it’s his characters that keep you coming back for more. Of course I care about the story, but I also care about whether Dismas will ever spend a little more time working on his marriage and making sure The Beck grows up to be unafraid about life. This is what stays with me long after I’ve finished one of John’s books. And this equals the loyal fan.

Even though we write in completely different genres, I’d analyzed what made me love John’s books and mapped out my own characters to have that same sort of appeal along with an intriguing plot. We oftentimes don’t know whether we’ve hit or missed with our intentions. But a while back I was having a discussion with our distributor and their lead sales rep who had just finished reading my book. Here’s how it went down:

Rep: I read your book. Twice.

Me: Wow, pretty impressive considering it’s over 400 pages

Rep: I know. A 400 page book is usually enough to make me cross eyed, but this read extremely fast. It’s because of how you weave your plot with your character development. You have great dialog and your characters are so three dimensional that they come to life.

Me (extremely flattered): I’m blushing here. Please don’t let me stop you from further gushing.

Rep: Your dialog is a huge asset and is very reminiscent to John Lescroart.

Me (fainting): You – you’ve just compared me to John Lescroart? Excuse me while I die a happy and fulfilled woman.

It just doesn’t get better than that. Well, okay, perhaps if I sold as well as he does. John, wherever you are, just know that we dialogers have to stick together.

Is There A Medblog In the House?

I’ve done it. I’ve considered attending a 12-step program for it, but one doesn’t exist. I can’t deny it any longer.

I’m a medblog addict.
Say it slowly.

I’m
A
Medblog
Addict.

Somehow seeing it on a cyber page makes it all the more real – and insane. What is a medblog? Oh dear, they’re these wonderful blogs hosted by docs of all backgrounds.

It’s really all the fault of Miss Snark, a NY literary agent owning a most delicious sense of humor. She posted about a doc who was holding a FOAD Letter Writing Contest.

What’s a FOAD Letter? It’s a letter where you tell the recipient to Fuck Off And Die so nicely that they never see it coming. Given my day job, I could hardly resist racing to the link provided. Turns out this clever contest holder is a doc who has the ability to make me laugh so hard tears run down my cheeks. Dinosaur Musings, you are a bright spot in my busy life, and your FOAD contest had me on the floor.

There’s Finger and Tubes in Every Orifice whose Emergency Room stories have made me laugh so loudly I awakened my dog. Charity Doc has also brought me to tears with his sensitive portrayal of humanity at its best and worst.

Surgeonsblog is one of my all time favorites because Dr. Schwab is so adept at communicating the compassion and mercy of people who rummage around people’s insides for a living. He can turn a liver into a thing of beauty. I know, sounds disgusting. Read the post, and you’ll feel differently. And while you're at it, buy his book, Cutting Remarks. It's a wonderful blend of humor, pathos, and everything in between.

Addicted to med blogs is another hopeless non-medical addict like me, and I’m grateful to her admission. I think she and I should set up lawn chairs, eat popcorn, drink lots of wine, and watch the stories unfold before us. It’s certain that no one would allow us in an OR.

Why the fascination with medblogs? I blame it on the fact that I write medical fiction. Since I’m not a doc and don’t play one on TV, I rely on those who have been kind enough to share their lives and thoughts with me. It’s their stories, their hearts and souls that go into the portrayal of my characters. It’s not strictly the personal journeys of people who came from the bowels of my imagination, but also the truly amazing personalities who do something truly honorable.

I admire the crap out docs. They cram an infinite amount of information into a finite space and in the process, do some pretty heroic things like diagnosing Cushing’s or hearing the heart murmur in a fetus. That’s why I write about their human side – their vulnerabilities, their prejudices, their beliefs. They’re modern day heroes who are expected to be on call, have all the answers all the time, know twenty-five dollar words that most tongues lack the genetics to pronounce, and be graceful under fire. Am I over romanticizing docs? Probably. But until there’s a 12-Step Program for it, I’m going to enjoy the heck out of myself and do what I do best – write and concede defeat over my willpower. I’m hooked.

I was mulling over the case of Abraham Cherrix, and still see two sides of this particular coin.

The gist is that he wants to be allowed to pursue alternative forms of treatment for his Hodgkin’s disease. Since his parents are supportive of his decision, social services have charged Abraham’s parents with medical neglect and are suing for custody of Abraham so they can force him into treatment. This alone is enough to scare the wind out of any parent. It’s shocking that our children can be taken away from us for not ascribing to traditional methods. Have we come so far down the path of socialism that we face losing our children because we don’t agree with Big Brother?

At what point do we forfeit the right to parent our children? Where do the lines get drawn? I rail against anyone who tells me how I can treat my child. But then again, it is assumed that we fit into the accepted paradigms of “what good parents do.” But what happens when what we do something that falls outside of those widely accepted parameters? Is it then permissible for the government to step in “for the good of the child”? They presume to know more than we do. But what if they’re wrong? Or more frightening – what if the parents are wrong?

I am a huge proponent of telling the government to get their hands off my life and my checkbook. Additionally, I’m a big believer of integrating alternative methods of healing into our medical paradigm. There are fewer side effects, less pain, and the patient is able to take an active role in their healing. The fact that Abraham is 16 should give him a great amount of autonomy over making his own medical decisions.

But what happens when the child is younger? At 16, he’s still a minor. Would we stand back and allow parents to willfully withhold treatment if the child were seven? We’ve all seen articles splashed across the papers about parents whose religious beliefs prevent them from allowing medicine or blood transfusions. We’ve seen them hauled off to court and their children forced into treatment. Do I believe that it’s right in those instances? Tough question, but yes, I do. A young child is unable to be is own advocate, and the alternative to no treatment would be death. Could we as a society stand by and allow this to happen? Should we?

As big a supporter as I am of keeping government out and parents being allowed to parent their children, I do worry about where those lines should be drawn. Abraham is old enough to decide what he wants to do. But who is the advocate for the younger child? Where do we draw the lines? At what age do we tell the government to mind their own business? It’s a political and social hotbed, and I can’t imagine a more mature and eloquent activist for this issue than Abraham Cherrix.