Dr. Lisa's Bountiful Life

Baseball Boy

When my son was small, he spent hours in the front yard, throwing a baseball against what is known as a "pitchback."

As the name suggests, this tall, flat-surfaced piece of equipment propelled his thrown balls back into his waiting glove.

My son used the pitchback with such intensity and frequency that it needed to be replaced several times between elementary and high school.

It was clear from his earliest years that my boy, who would also hang out in the driveway dribbling and shooting a basketball until long after dark,  loved the repetition and physicality of sports.

He also loved the tactics and gamesmanship required. He loved following stats and discussing them with his dad. He loved the competition. He loved the camaraderie.

He had gained some admirable skills by the time he graduated from high school

This past fall in Guatemala, he played in a local soccer league, and recently he sent a text telling me that he had pitched four innings for a local baseball team.

It did this mother's heart good to hear of his baseball outing.

I was happy because my son was playing baseball for the pure love of the game; he was playing baseball for the same reason that he would spend hours with his pitchback when he was young.

There was no pressure to win for his school or for a premier club team.

He did it because it brought him joy: the joy of a small boy, loving the feel of a baseball in his hand.

 

Campbell, yesteryear

 

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Dr. Lisa's Bountiful Blog is read on the Dr. Lisa Radio Hour & Podcast. Show summaries are available on the Dr. Lisa website. Subscribe to podcasts of the show through iTunes and let us know what you think!

Cliff Walk

When my children were small, their father and I backpacked them everywhere.

We hiked in Vermont and New Hampshire.

We walked trails both coastal and mountainous in our dear state of Maine.

We shoehorned in numerous adventures while completing our medical and legal educations, and working the endless hours required by early professional careers.

It was important that we get outdoors, and connect our kids with the "something bigger" that we both had experienced growing up.

Time passed, and our kids got older. School and sports-related activities bumped our outdoor adventures down the list of priorities.

The outdoor adventures I had once shared became mostly solo jaunts.

My family shifted, and changed form.

This past weekend, I returned to that shared "something bigger" connection, as I took two short hikes with my dearest one.

I showed him the Bates-Morse Mountain hike to Seawall Beach/Popham; he brought me to the Cliff Walk at Prouts Neck. The first was unfamiliar to him; the second unfamiliar to me.

I enjoyed his company, the beautiful oddly-out-of-sync February weather and the scenery.

I also found myself awash in physical memories of earlier days. 

I found myself returning to past hikes with my children and their father. Re-connecting with the experiences that had once been so crucial to my life, and the life of my young family.

It would have been easy to know regret and sadness over these lost days; easy to mourn something that no longer is.

But, instead, I allowed the past memories to be what they were:  joyous recollections.

I found myself singing as I navigated the rock-strewn Cliff Walk. It was as if the overtones of sadness and regret associated with those memories were taking flight from my body and ascending as balloons to the sky.

Making way for new memories. 

Making way for a new life.

And I knew that although my children were no longer always able to be with me in physical form, I would carry them with me in spirit forever.

We would each continue to connect with that "something bigger" in our own ways.

And, in doing so, would connect with one another as well.

 

Prouts Neck, low tide

February 2012

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Dr. Lisa's Bountiful Blog is read on the Dr. Lisa Radio Hour & Podcast. Show summaries are available on the Dr. Lisa website. Subscribe to podcasts of the show through iTunes and let us know what you think!

Schedule a phone or office consult with Dr. Lisa at 207 847 9393.

Burnt Broccoli

The day ended with burnt broccoli.

It was a fitting way to cap off a series of Monday missteps.

Hoping to win the award for best mother ever, I began cooking a late meal for my older daughter, newly home from a multi-hour swim practice.

My younger daughter had been languishing in front of the television, waiting for me to throw a bone her way, snacking on an oh-so-nutritious bag of salt and vinegar chips (yes, even the healthiest of doctors do every so often weary of the fight and allow their children to eat junk).

I had spent the day rushing back and forth doing radio show work, then teaching Qigong.

Several things had not gone as planned: technical challenges with recording interviews with our radio guests...getting lost driving from Westbrook to South Portland (my fellow Mainers know that this is a near impossibility)...not having enough pudding to complete my almost-eleven-year-old's Valentine birthday classroom snack (necessitating four trips to the grocery store in three days)...the list of silly irritations rambles on...

The significant other in my life spent more than a few moments of his valuable evening convincing me that, no, I didn't want to run away and live with the gypsies, rather than face another bit of none-life-shattering nonsense.

Off the phone, I felt I might be in the clear. I was convinced that the tide had turned and that God was not truly laughing at me.

Then the broccoli burned.

Our one remaining "nice" pan boiled dry, and the smell of acrid cruciferous filled the house.

I must admit, I went to my room and turned off the lights.

And hid under the covers.

No, I did not cry.

No, I did not rail at my ridiculous misfortune.

I simply pulled the blankets over my head, and hoped that the day might disappear.

It did not, nor did the smell of burnt broccoli.

Instead, my Valentine baby came in to find me.

She asked if I was OK, and told me that our kitchen issue was not as problematic as it seemed. The pan was salvageable and candles could be used to clear the air.

She suggested that I simply needed to breathe.

Which I did. And despite the large gulp of smoke I pulled into my lungs, I actually felt better.

Not entirely better, but somewhat.

I remembered that burnt broccoli is not the end of the world.

And that tomorrow is another day.

(Happy birthday eve, sweetest Sophie Grace.)

By My Side

The day began early, and it's not over yet.

My youngest daughter and I are at the regional YMCA, awaiting the end of her sister's swim meet. Prior to this, my almost-eleven-year-old accompanied me on errands and sat quietly in my office as I taught a Qigong class.

Sophie is nothing if not portable.

Having two siblings 5 and 7 years older has necessitated this. Sophie hit the ground running and has never looked back. She began learning to ski as soon as she could walk--she even traversed the trails in utero, as I followed my older kids slowly down the bunny slopes, my belly straining at its temporarily insufficient winter garb.

Sophie has witnessed myriad games, meets and matches; has attended innumerable events and functions not her own.

Tonight, Sophie alternates homework with Hulu-watching, snack-eating and recreational reading.

She is tired--we both are--but her complaints are few and far between.

For this I am eternally grateful, and probably not as vocal about that fact as I should be.

She offers me a quick hug and requests a time check before taking in the boys' relay event and returning to her chair.

The day is not over yet. There are miles to go before we sleep.

But the journey's load is lighter with Sophie by my side.

Friends We Never Knew We Had

It is uniquely concerning to receive a text from one's child describing potentially life-threatening illness symptoms.

Headache, stiff neck, fever, lethargy, vomiting.

These are not a good constellation of descriptors.

Especially when one is a physician who has both treated and seen the aftermath of meningitis--the illness often associated with the constellation of aforementioned descriptors.

Now, add in the fact that one's child is roughly 2, 334 miles away, in a third world Central American country.

And, that one's child is barely eighteen years old.

As you might have guessed, I received just such a text. The past forty-eight hours have been interesting, to say the least.

My child is currently in a Guatemalan hospital awaiting the final results of his spinal tap. Fortunately, preliminary results were negative for meningitis, and he is scheduled to be released today.

The presumed diagnosis (sinusitis) is much less severe and more easily treatable than the one I had feared.

To know that my baby was far away, and I was completely unable to help him, certainly gave me pause.

What also gave me pause was that both his roommate's mother (Jan) and his roommate (Nico) contacted me via Facebook to give me updates on my son's condition.

Both offered up Nico's contact phone number. 

Nico told me that he was taking time off from work to make sure that my son was ok.

Keep in mind that I've never met Jan, and spent only brief amounts of time with Nico during my visit to Guatemala last Thanksgiving.

But these kind souls became, in my moments of parental concern, the friends I needed.

They were friends that I didn't realize I had.

We should all be so fortunate as to be loved by those who owe us nothing.

Our lives, even when seemingly threatened, often reveal themselves to be suprisingly, powerfully blessed.

Campbell & Nico

Guatemala 2011

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Dr. Lisa's Bountiful Blog is read weekly on the Dr. Lisa Radio Hour. Show summaries are available on the Dr. Lisa website. Subscribe to podcasts of the show through iTunes and let us know what you think!

Schedule a phone or office consult with Dr. Lisa at 207 847 9393.

16, my sweet

January 25, 1996 was an auspicious day.

It was the day my Abigail Marie drew her first breath on this earth; it was the day I had a little girl to match my little boy.

Now my little girl is the sweetest of ages: the magical 16.

And I hope that this year will bring her much joy. Though, simultaneously, I am cognizant that joy will not alone be her lot.

I must admit that I love this girl of mine so much it hurts at times.

My Abby long ago ceased to be the baby held against my chest; long ago ceased to need my song lulling her to sleep in the moonlight.

Long ago ceased to carry the name "Nala," as given to her by her big brother, in honor of the girl cub in his favorite movie, The Lion King.

Now, my Abby is a womanchild: one foot still planted in childhood, one foot crossing the threshold of adulthood.

And, with this crossing, the certain undertaking of things adult.

The undertaking of adult situations; adult emotions.

I have seen this take place already. Seen her pain. Felt, myself, bodily hurt and heartsick at her misfortune.

Felt helpless and sorrowful at my inability to shield her from things difficult.

And, at once, fully aware that all happens as it must.

My darling Abby is, at sixteen, eligible to know the sweetness of a larger life.

Eligible to know a greater richness and a more succulent joy.

With which is often coupled the stark contrast of other emotions, less welcome.

My little Nala will remain with me always. Her pain will always be my pain; her joy my joy.

And though I know she rarely reads my words, I will leave her with this, on the off chance today she might:

Happiest of birthdays to you, my dearest Abigail Marie.

Thank you for the auspiciousness which you bestowed upon the day of your birth.

And for every day since.

 

Abby, enthroned on the Alice-in-Wonderland chair

Boston 2012

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Dr. Lisa's Bountiful Blog is read weekly on the Dr. Lisa Radio Hour. Show summaries are available on the Dr. Lisa website. Subscribe to podcasts of the show through iTunes and let us know what you think!

Schedule a phone or office consult with Dr. Lisa at 207 847 9393.

 

 

 

We Shall Overcome

When my son was small, he came home from school one day belting out the words to We Shall Overcome:

Deep in my heart, I do believe,

We shall overcome some day.

It was touching and slightly strange to hear such a solemn hymn coming from a squeaky voiced grade-schooler.

More touching still to know how much had been overcome by the time my children arrived on the scene, years after Martin Luther King Jr's death.

Today my high school sophomore daughter reflected on the fact that we now have a president who had the opportunity to ascend to this office largely due the civil rights work of MLK and his contemporaries.

She also pointed out that there are individuals who, though they might not admit it, are even now conflicted about having a black president.

Much has been overcome, and much still remains to be overcome.

But overcoming is possible, as we have come to realize.

We have, in our country, dealt with racism/sexism and every other sort of -ism one might think of. We have seen religious intolerance and gender discrimination.

And we continue to evolve.

Our children know a world that is different than the world I knew in my childhood.

A world they might not have known had we agreed to keep living with the status quo.

As we've seen in recent books & movies such as The Help, the status quo is highly fungible. Written by novelist Kathryn Stockett, The Help was a fictionalized account of middle class segregation and the phenomonon of 'hired help,' set in Jackson, Missisippi during the 1960s. This type of segregation, disturbing to contemplate, no longer legally exists.

The fact that we have progressed past this place of race-based discrimination reminds us that change is always possible--even change that seems unlikely, given that it requires shifts in societal norms and values.

Change requires that individuals like Martin Luther King, Jr., and legions of others who have championed unpopular views, be willing to sing a different song.

It requires that we buy in to the potential of hope.

Because if, deep in our hearts enough of us believe,

then it is certain 

we shall overcome some day.

Bailey Island

2012

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Dr. Lisa's Bountiful Blog is read weekly on the Dr. Lisa Radio Hour. Show summaries are available on the Dr. Lisa website. Subscribe to podcasts of the show through iTunes and let us know what you think!

Schedule a phone or office consult with Dr. Lisa at 207 847 9393.

 

 

 

 

 

Body Beautiful

What does it mean to have a beautiful body?

Mainstream media sources might have us believe that a beautiful body is one that is simultaneously voluptuous and meagre; buff, toned and taut.

Add in a smile of dazzling brights and the perfect South Beach tan.

Packaged in a veneer of youth.

Mainstream media is often simply reflecting what we, ourselves, have asked for.

We want something that falls within a range of acceptable perfection.

We want a set of consistent standards by which we might judge our fellow humans.

To be fair, there is a bit of an evolutionary effect that impacts our perception of beauty.

Most of us fall victim to the genetic pre-programming that calls for offspring who will carry on our lineage. Studies have shown that there is a competitive survival advantage in being tall and attractive, for example.

But there is a cost to requiring similar characteristics of beauty of all bodies.

When it comes to humans, "perfect" physical specimens are few and far between. 

Most of us fall short of the mark in some way.

And many who do fall short find themselves aching to attain an ideal that is not realistic--or perhaps even real.

As a doctor, I've seen a broad range of bodies: underfed and overstuffed. Short and tall. Bent, broken, scarred and aged.

And I've concluded that beautiful bodies are not those that are perfect.

Instead, they are those that are loved.

Beautiful bodies are ones whose owners inhabit their own skin comfortably.

Beautiful bodies are also the bodies who are loved by others.

They are the bodies that are regularly caressed and hugged. They are the bodies that are touched with great tenderness.

Voluptuous/meagre/buff/toned/taut.

Bent/broken/scarred/aged.

All are equal when judged through eyes of love.

 

mi hijo

summer 2011

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Dr. Lisa's Bountiful Blog is read weekly on the Dr. Lisa Radio Hour. Show summaries are available on the Dr. Lisa website. Subscribe to podcasts of the show through iTunes and let us know what you think!

Schedule a phone or office consult with Dr. Lisa at 207 847 9393.

 

 

 

Ephiphanosity

I assumed that I would be easily able to bid my son goodbye, as he made his way once more to the Southern Hemisphere.

I assumed wrong.

Leaving my son at the Logan Airport curb in Boston was no less difficult than saying farewell when he left for Guatemala in September.

My heart broke yet again.

This was the first of many epiphanies to take place today: that we continue to have such depth of grief at the parting of our children, despite multiple opportunities for practice.

Returning home, I find the Wall Street Journal he left open on the couch, and a pile of his discarded clothes strewn across the laundry room floor. My tears well afresh with the knowledge that I will not see my son again for five months.

Grateful am I for the tears. It is a beautiful life I have, to know such love.

Grateful am I for the insights that rained down upon my being this January 6th--the Christian Feast of the Epiphany.

The Epiphany was the day that the Magi were said to have first encountered the Christ child. It also (according to Wikipedia) celebrates the "revelation of God the Son as a human being in Jesus Christ." 

In other words, it is a day when things become manifest; when we perhaps realize something that has been previously hidden or forgotten.

In addition to my epiphanous understanding that we never stop feeling sadness when our children depart, I also had epiphanies of a more personal nature.

My Logan Airport sojourn reminded me of my never-flagging wanderlust; of the certain desire to continue my own world travels.

Later business meetings reminded me of my passion for my calling as a physician, writer and radio host.

Driving home in the snow reminded me of Maine's stark winter beauty, and why I live here, despite the dark and cold.

It was a day of rediscovery.

It was (another) day of heartbreak, and of gratitude.

It was a day of goodbyes and manifestations of love.

It was, indeed, a day of epiphany.

 

found

Riverside Cemetery, 2011

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Dr. Lisa's Bountiful Blog is read weekly on the Dr. Lisa Radio Hour. Show summaries are available on the Dr. Lisa website. Subscribe to podcasts of the show through iTunes and let us know what you think!

Schedule a phone or office consult with Dr. Lisa at 207 847 9393.

Holding Pattern

I am an auntie many times over. My siblings have, among them, eleven children. The youngest of these was born a mere eleven days ago.

This year the Belisle family had three babies under two months of age at the Christmas celebration: Joseph Charles, son of my brother Matthew and his wife Myriam, joined his November-born cousins, Alexis and Ben.

Babies, galore.

And yet, never enough for me.

I have been holding babies from my earliest years. With nine younger siblings, there was ample opportunity for that.

My own babies (who at 18, almost-16 and almost-11 still like to be "held") are far more than an armful now.

Thus my baby fix typically comes during holidays and special family occasions.

This year, I took full advantage of the infant surplus, snuggling with little Ben as the rest of the family ate Christmas dinner. 

And I was amply rewarded. Small, sleeping babies are one of the world's best soul-soothers. Their bodies can't help but bring joy and calm to the arms that hold them.

I do realize that tiny humans don't always sleep, and that raising babies comes with many responsibilities.

But as auntie, my responsibilities are limited. Mainly, I provide love and a set a of willing arms.

Which I am happy to do.

Belisle babies in multiple? Numbers don't scare me. Bring 'em on.

 

my buddy, Ben

2011

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Dr. Lisa's Bountiful Blog is read weekly on the Dr. Lisa Radio Hour. Show summaries are available on the Dr. Lisa website. Download podcasts of the show through iTunes and let us know what you think!

Schedule a phone or office consult with Dr. Lisa at 207 847 9393.