Tag Archives: Daily Life

Dr. House (from the TV show) Is Fictional

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The patient had an extensive workup. The imaging, labs, and other studies were resoundingly negative and reassuring. The patient’s symptom of concern was a real experience yet, having no identifiable cause, it could not be treated with modern medicine. The negative workup and their medical stability indicated that the patient should return home because the hospital had nothing to offer them. Further, their life was thankfully not in danger from a medical problem. Of course, they needed to follow up with their long-term providers like their primary care physician and outpatient specialists.

We discharged the patient. The patient appealed the discharge. That gave them several extra days in the hospital. Days where we did nothing for them because there was nothing for us to do. Right before their appeal was denied and they left the hospital, the patient stated, “We’ve gone to so many hospitals about this issue. No one has found anything. We thought you would be like Dr. House from TV and figure out what is going on.”

Popular TV shows about medicine like Dr. House and Grey’s Anatomy are undoubtably enjoyable to watch. Yet, as riveting as they may be, they are fiction. They are neither scientifically accurate regarding disease states and medical treatments nor are they real representations of any role in medicine from doctor to nurse or patient to family member in the hospital.

Medicine is constantly changing and advancing. We do incredible things. We can put new livers, hearts, lungs, and kidneys in people thereby giving them years to live. Before we could transplant organs, people simply died when their heart or liver failed. We can restart people’s hearts, put them on breathing machines for short periods while their bodies fight severe illness, and use machines to do the work of kidneys (that’s what dialysis is). We have medications that can lower people’s risk of heart attack and stroke. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg in terms of what medicine can do. But as much as medicine can do, it has real limitations. And while we can answer many questions, we also leave many questions unanswered.

As a physician I love solving mysteries and helping people feel better. Several of the hardest things to learn when I started the Doctorhood Quest were that not all mysteries have answers, not all symptoms have a well-defined cause, and not every discomfort a person experiences can or should be treated with medications or interventions. My job as a physician is to investigate symptoms thoroughly for causes that I can treat, ensure people’s lives are not in danger from a medical condition that I can intervene on, and offer symptom relief if it’s available and if the benefit of treatment outweighs the risks of treatment.

Not every symptom has a clear-cut cause. A runny nose might be from a virus we can’t test for. It might be from allergies. Aches and pains might just be explained by normal life, or they might be a sign of something treatable or serious. Minor lab abnormalities might be nothing or might be the beginning of something – if the subsequent workup is negative, they’re likely nothing. The list goes on.

I think it would be cool to solve medical problems with the flair that Dr. House on TV does. He’s portrayed as brilliant – all of us in medicine aspire to be geniuses. But when I think of Dr. House, I recall that he is incredibly rude to patients. These days, patients don’t put up with that kind of treatment (and they shouldn’t either). When I think of Dr. House, I recall how many scenes show him misusing drugs right before work. In real life, that behavior would lead to him losing his medical license. When I think of Dr. House, I think of how poorly he treats fellow. Physicians who treat fellows like that get negative evaluations and are encouraged to change or not teach. Dr. House is a fictional character. Medicine, conversely, is incredibly real. As much as I wish real-life medicine could solve everything fiction can solve, we can’t. Sometimes, when the tests are negative and a patient’s condition is stable, it’s best for a patient to accept medicine can’t answer their question or cure their challenge. It’s incredibly dissatisfying. But, sometimes, medicine has nothing to offer, and no additional testing will change that.

Spring Ponderings

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Springtime has arrived in Richmond with flowers galore and the tiniest of new leaves already on the trees. Warm weather and the sunshine return to Virginia sooner than Vermont, which is one reason I moved here. While the earth is waking up – the birds singing and soaring and the pollen exploding – I find myself taking a breath of relief.

Even in Virginia the winters are gray. This year we had a period of fierce snow and ice for the first time since I moved south. I’m excited to see the osprey on the James River again. They’ll stay for the summer. Their chicks will be visible soon in their nests; they look like little dragons until they grow true feathers. I never thought I’d live in a city that had osprey screaming overhead, but I’m happy I do. I also look forward to scouting for native passion fruit and pawpaws this summer. And, of course, looking for bats overhead at dusk in the downtown park. There’s something joyful about nature finding a way to thrive in the heart of a city.

I embrace spring cleaning. The literal interpretation – organizing the house, rearranging the plants, reviewing my wardrobe. And the metaphorical one – brushing away the cobwebs that settled around my innovation and motivation when sunshine was scarce. This is a more exciting spring than usual. April 1st marked 90 days left of residency. This spring I’m reflecting on what I’ve done these past 3 years of residency and what needs to change once I graduate.

Becoming a doctor is a sacrifice. It takes years of dedication, intentional work, and intense focus. I’ve found that the most challenging part about the journey through medical school and residency is that the process limits one’s freedom. Freedom to choose one’s schedule. Freedom to choose one’s location of work. Freedom to decide how to spend one’s day. Freedom to have energy and time to do other things.

This spring I’m preparing for my next step in the doctorhood quest – passing my board exams and starting to work independently. I’m also taking time to look at the other parts of my life. It’s time to remember my hobbies – the ones that have been sitting dormant for years as there was no time to pursue them. My other goals like personal health, social activities, and world improvement that have all atrophied during residency. This spring isn’t just when the earth rejuvenates, it’s the spring I rejuvenate too.

2026 Is My Year

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“Hope” is the thing with feathers

By Emily Dickinson

“Hope” is the thing with feathers –

That perches in the soul –

And sings the tune without the words –

And never stops – at all –

And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard –

And sore must be the storm –

That could abash the little Bird

That kept so many warm –

I’ve heard it in the chillest land –

And on the strangest Sea –

Yet – never – in Extremity,

It asked a crumb – of me.

***

I’ve waited so long for 2026. This year, I graduate residency! It’s only taken 9 years of medical training.

In January 2026…well also February and now most of March… I was busy working long shifts in the hospital, drafting a novel, and waiting for the sunshine to bring us spring. I also adventured through some of the eastern US’s fabulous swamps. A tour I called “swampin’.” So, though conceived months ago and already implemented, just past the first day of spring is the time to share my themes for 2026. It’s a big year. The first half is dedicated to the end of residency. The second half will be my first months as an attending physician.

Hope

This is my central theme for 2026. My last day of residency is June 30, 2026. I have so much hope. Hope about what I’ll learn between now and then. Hope of passing my boards. Hope about settling into my new life as an independent primary care physician. Hope for the nature of my life when I no longer have a residency schedule. Hope for all the things I’ll accomplish outside of medicine.

Growth

As I finish up residency, I’m among the most experienced residents. As a senior resident, I help junior residents and medical students learn what previous senior residents taught me. Yet, come July 1st, I’ll drop from the most experienced resident to the least experienced attending physician. I can’t wait to see how much I grow when I start practicing medicine on my own.

Independence

Medicine is accumulative. Each year of medical school and residency I’ve become more confident in my knowledge. 2026 marks the beginning of practicing medicine without a supervisor (though senior physicians and colleagues will always be there to help with complex medical cases). I’m ready to see where independent medical practice brings me.

Thankful

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This post comes after a several-month blogging hiatus. The break wasn’t intentional, but life has a way of carrying us forward in unexpected ways. The past few months I continued to write, but in a different genre. I drafted several novels. I have two fantasy series that occupy my imagination currently. I’m not done with them. Novel writing is a long-term project, like most things in my life. Yet, despite stories unfinished, the flow of my days has brought me back to this blog. Afterall, the doctorhood quest isn’t over. It begs the question of whether the doctorhood quest will ever be over as there is always more to learn, but that introspection can be left to the future.

The past few months oscillated between easy schedules with plenty of time to contemplate life and my least favorite part of residency, night shift. I’m gleeful to report that I finished my last scheduled night shift of residency last week. Of course, I’m in residency. Another week or so of nights will sneak into my schedule before I graduate. Such is the way of residency, unwelcome and unfriendly work schedules. I skipped Thanksgiving because I was on night shift. I celebrated Christmas on November 30 because December is a doomsday schedule in my residency program. I wrote this blog at 3 o’clock in the morning because my sleep-wake cycle was still upset from night shift despite a week of day shifts under my belt. Schedule challenges aside, December is a month of reflection and giving thanks. I find myself in an interesting place – seeing how far I’ve come while also noticing a long road ahead.

I have 7 months left of residency. I have a job for post-graduation (more on that in a future post). I completed the administrative hoops to get official physician’s licenses. I scheduled my last exam – the board exam. Once I pass the board exam, it signals that the past 9 years of training taught me what I need to know about doctoring…at least on paper. Completing those tasks is enough to be grateful for without needing to look below the surface or consider the complexity that made them possible. But giving thanks is more than checking off one’s to-do list. So, let me dive deeper into some of the things I’m most grateful for currently.

On the top of my “thankful for” list are the countless people who helped me get to where I am. Many of these people are unnamed and their time in my life was brief. Together they made me the doctor I am. I must first give a nod of thanks to my patients. They have taught me more than they know. To be a patient is to be vulnerable, and they navigated that vulnerability with bravery. Next, I give a nod to my professors and peers in medicine. Medicine is a team sport, anyone who tells you otherwise is lying. Every day I learn something from my colleagues in medicine. Collaboration for the better good is one thing I love about the medical field. And last, but not least, I’m thankful for the friends and family who have supported me on this journey. They are the force that keeps me on the path forward. I will not imagine what this journey would have been without them. 

After the people in my life, I’m thankful for my circumstances. I’m thankful to live in the sunny city of Richmond where native passionfruit and pawpaws hide in the park. Where the river flows under and around osprey in the summer and ducks, geese, and cormorants year-round. Where snow falls occasionally in winter and daffodils bloom in February. Where cultures born of many pasts and futures come together, not always smoothly but always with hope. I’m thankful for my apartment where I can track the exact location of the sunset throughout the year – knowing the season by the building behind which the sun dives first. I’m thankful for the plants that dominate my living room. They ensure that there is no day without a flower blooming in my home. I’ve always said that I’ll know I’m rich when I can always have a fresh bouquet of flowers without concern for budget. When I thought of that definition of wealth, I didn’t realize that tending plants would make me rich faster than working. In retrospect, I should have realized that “wealth” is a nebulous term.

And finally, I’m thankful for my experience. My experiences on the doctorhood quest and in other aspects of life. I have never had a job that is as consistently rewarding and infuriating as being a physician. Most days the reward outweighs the frustration, which is why I continue to return. I had over 20 jobs before entering medical school, some were fun and others inspiring, yet I would not return to any of them. Apart from work, this year’s vacations, day trips, and glorious hours lounging I cherish. As December unfolds, I’m thinking about the experiences I’ve had and those ahead. There is never a dull moment when one accepts that the only constant is change. With the days of 2025 numbered, I’m thankful for what this year was and the hope next year holds.

Remarkable People

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Movement at the periphery of my vision caught my attention as I sat at a stop light on my way to work. The movement was a person standing on the sidewalk. Perhaps they were dancing in their mind. Their movements were rhythmic but not in the way most people move to a beat. Something was wrong. Then I realized they were foaming at the mouth and a string of drool hung from their chin. Their eyes were open, but I wasn’t sure they saw the world around them. The explanation didn’t take a medical degree to deduce: Drugs. Likely cocaine or another stimulant. Opiates make people sleepy, not interested in dancing on a street corner.

That day in clinic I had a new patient scheduled who hadn’t been seen by a doctor in several years. The patient was young. They had a history of substance use disorder. The last notes in our system, from several years prior, said they’d stopped using drugs. Previously, they’d used almost every class of drug: alcohol, tobacco, cocaine, benzos, and opiates. As I waited for their appointment to start, I wondered how they were doing, now years later.

The patient entered my clinic calm, clean, and collected. They were articulate and respectful. They had cool hobbies including gardening and beekeeping. “Last time you saw us, you hadn’t used drugs for a few years. Is that still the case?” I asked.

“Yeah, I don’t use drugs anymore. Haven’t for years. I still smoke cigarettes though,” the patient said.

The conversation about their health unfolded. I looked at my computer to go through the never-ending reminders the healthcare system required me to complete with my patients. The reminders for the current appointment included cancer screening and offering nasal naloxone (maybe better known by its brand name “NARCAN.” It’s a nasal spray that reverses the effects of opiates and, if given soon enough after an overdose, saves lives).

“I know you said you don’t use drugs, but I have a reminder here for naloxone. Would you like free naloxone just in case?” I asked.

“No. I’m good. I used to have it. It saved my life twice…and I saved the lives of two other people. I had a friend that said over his time, he saved 60 people with NARCAN,” the patient said.

“I’m glad you were able to do that. I’m glad you’re still with us,” I said.

I finished going through the reminders. We finished our appointment. The patient was healthy and didn’t even need any blood tests.

I thought about the patient as I walked to my car. Beekeeping is awesome. I hoped I’d get back to gardening someday too. As I put my car in reverse, I remembered the person I saw foaming at the mouth on my drive to work. The contrast between the person I saw on the street corner and my patient that day was stark. The contrast reminded me how life is nonlinear. I thought about how the patient had saved their own life and the lives of two others. The patient I’d seen was a remarkable person. The phrase popular for healthcare workers during the COVID pandemic came to mind, “Not all heroes wear capes.” I decided the phrase was accurate but needed modification. Perhaps a better phrase for remarkable people in the world is, “Not all heroes wear capes, but they have baggage and have learned to carry it with grace.”

I hoped the person I saw dancing to drugs and foaming at the mouth would turn down a different road in life. Maybe that person on the street corner would someday tend their own flowers and suck honey from honeycombs too. Maybe the person I saw on the street corner had saved a life right before I saw them. Maybe their life had been saved by an unknown remarkable person. Afterall, the only thing that makes people remarkable is what they’ve done. Every day each of us can decide to do something new. Every day we can evolve and refresh. That’s the most exciting thing about life: The only constant is change.

The Tired Mind

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The foundation of medicine is curiosity. Desire to understand how the human body works – how those workings can break and malfunction and then, how they can be fixed again. Interest in the human experience. Wonder about how the mind can influence the physical. Joy in the triumphs of human capabilities. Humility in the shadow of human limitations. Thrill in the story of each human life. Medicine is built on questions and the pursuit of their answers.

At its best medicine is cutting-edge. Exciting. Grounded in the clearest understanding of the world the best science has thus far provided us. Yet, medicine isn’t always at its best. Medicine, after all, is a profession performed by humans. And humans are fallible. Medicine doesn’t stand above or beyond bias and money. And physicians, like all human beings, get tired.

The tired mind is a weak medicine mind. The tired mind processes slowly. The facts stand right in front of a tired mind, yet the mind is too weary to see them. The tired mind makes mistakes. Rushes when it shouldn’t. Forgets. Gets distracted by unimportant details. The tired mind is more likely to cut corners. Tired minds place patients in boxes of diseases rather than notice the nuances that make each patient unique. The tired mind is about clocking in and clocking out. The tired mind doesn’t ask questions. Because questions must be answered. And answering questions takes time. The tired mind has used up its time.

I think about the mind often at the wee hours of the morning on nightshifts or when my dayshifts drag on in a string of events. Not necessarily unfortunate events but overlapping and clashing events that make up a typical day in medicine. As shifts pile on top of each other, the events of each shift blend creating fog within the mind.

I know when my mind is tired because medicine isn’t interesting during those times. When my mind is tired the wonder of medicine evaporates. The wonder is replaced with drudgery as many tasks become repetitive and the clock ticks. When fatigue prevails, work hours are reduced to time that feels stolen. Stolen in the sense that work hours become hours I can’t sleep, can’t see the sun, can’t visit people I love, and can’t do hobbies I enjoy. When my mind is tired work hours are exposed as time spent looking at numbers that almost tell the story of human existence. I know that life is more than the sum of the numbers that describe it but, when I’m tired, I can almost believe life is no more than numbers.

When my schedule eases and balance between work and free time is restored, the wonder of medicine returns. The thrill of seeking the answers to mysterious questions – the function of medications, the disease behind a constellation of symptoms, and the life experience that led a patient to the hospital or my clinic – takes center stage again. When there is balance and my mind isn’t tired, medicine is thrilling. Thrilling because few other professions let one spend their day unraveling mysteries. Hearing the stories of real humans and decoding what those stories mean from a wellness and health perspective.

As my days as a resident dwindle, I find myself thinking about what it will take to minimize the tired mind and maximize curiosity during the next phase of my career. It was my love of stories and my delight in solving riddles that carried me through the 8 years of medical training I’ve already completed on the doctorhood quest. One more year and I’ll be an independently practicing physician. Even if I’m called to do more training, no future training will be like medical school or residency. Nothing can be. Medical school and then residency are times of growth, but they involve too many hours spent with a tired mind.

I plan to make the next step not the way of medical school and residency. How do I find or create a job that serves me as well as my patients? How do I ensure my work fosters curiosity and promotes wonder? How do I make work more than task completion and income earned? How do I make sure that the formulation of questions and the pursuit of their answers remain at the center of my work? To answer these questions I must explore the nuances of the profession; a wholly different pursuit than gaining the medical knowledge required to become a physician.

Count Down

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The sun sparkled through the bright green leaves of late spring. The osprey floated overhead, having returned to Richmond at the first signs of spring months earlier. The James River still roared because summer’s dryness hadn’t set in yet. My morning soundtrack was birds singing, then replaced by the bustle of slow Richmond when the city finally awoke. The late morning sky was speckled with swallows. The crows cawed. The birds that flew past had nest material in their beaks. I drank mate as the day lazily passed.

When the sun returns and the days are warm and humid, I think of Paraguay. The land of the Guarani; a place that hasn’t been my home for years yet, somehow, is where I’m grounded. When I have slow moments, my mind slips back to the breeze in the mango trees and the sun dancing on the red dirt. I think of my Paraguayans neighbors and friends who smiled so easily and were quick to laugh. In Paraguay the music always blasts too loudly and at the wrong hour. The motos zoomed up the road, their riders helmetless. In Paraguay, the days were slow even when they were fast. I thought the pace was because of the heat when I lived there. But, perhaps, there is more to the calm that sits it the lowlands around the Paraguayan River than just the temperature.

Virginia summer is like Paraguay. Maybe that’s why I like it here. Or I could like it because Virginia is a warm version of Vermont. Vermont, my original home with its harsh winters, perfect summers, and rugged greenness. It’s also possible that I like Virginia just because I do. Richmond, the city no one’s been to. A hidden gem of sorts – not too big and not too small. It’s home to a diverse assortment of people. Richmond feels very southern but not lost in the south. Odd, given its history. I feel at home here despite having a New England constitution and a Vermonter’s tenacity for liberty. Liberty of spirit, body, and mind…something I’ve noticed our country has been undermining recently.

The late spring unfolding to summer is a transition time. It’s a change of season. And for me, along with every other medical resident, it’s also a transition from one residency year to the next. In a few short months, I’ll start my last year of residency. As such, it’s time to start planning my next steps. I’ve been thinking about the job I hope to have after residency and how I might find it. Medicine is for planners, everything in medicine takes a long time and requires strategy. I’m a planner so I fit right in. But I’m also a dreamer. Not all doctors are dreamers, yet I am. I’ve been dreaming of birds singing all day, never to be replaced by noisy cars and music I didn’t pick. Dreaming of grass between my toes and the quietness of trees. I’ve been dreaming of trails yet to be explored and reflecting on the trails I’ve already walked.

I’m always counting down to things that will come. Some counting is more meaningful than other counting. My residency countdown is meaningful. It was for the “after residency” phase of being a physician that I went into medicine. I’m finally almost there. Just 14 months left of the doctorhood quest. A year-ish is a short time when I remember that I’ve been chipping away at the doctorhood quest for 8 years already. What an invigorating thing to look for a job again rather than think about school. I’m excited to have a job that allows more time than I have currently to sip mate and contemplate if the sun is prettier here or in Paraguay. There isn’t enough time allocated to such contemplation during residency.

Hospital White

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The stretcher looked different from the 100s of others I’d seen. It was empty and it had an unexpected metal bar at the head of the bed. I glanced in the room outside which the stretcher had stopped. On the bed was a white bag, zipped up, and just the height and length of a sleeping human. I realized the stretcher was there to take a body to the morgue.

Death has been present on many of my hospital shifts – especially in the ICU (intensive care unit) where this sighting occurred. Yet, until this moment, I hadn’t seen the patients who died taken out of their rooms. I’d pronounced them dead. I’d seen patients’ families crying at bedside. I’d seen the closed doors with butterflies on them marking that someone was dying or dead. I’d seen the strangely empty and freshly made beds where those who had died once lay.

The body in the white bag was lifted onto the stretcher. White sheets surrounded them. Then they were wheeled to the morgue – their family wouldn’t see them again. Of course, the person’s soul was gone well before the body was put in a white bag. Off to a better place. If nothing else, watching many people die has made me certain there is a soul which leaves when death calls. To where the soul goes after death, no one knows.  Long ago, I decided to believe souls always go to a better place when the body dies. No one can prove my theory wrong, so no need to worry about the journey of souls.

The sighting of the white bag made me sad. It wasn’t the kind of sadness that made me feel like crying. It was more of a sinking feeling placed on top of an already crummy night. Heaviness on the chest and shoulders. We had multiple sick patients. My co-resident had pronounced dead a patient almost every night that week. Somehow, he’d gotten that burden. I had not pronounced anyone that week; I was caring for people who were staying alive (for the time being). It was night shift, making the already dreary worse. A string of unpleasant nights with one-way transport of white bags out of the ICU. Some of these nights were so busy we only just managed to do the things most necessary. Our patient list was younger than it should have been. It’s easier to accept death when people have lived a long life. Of course, there were a couple happier cases; those patients would make it out of the ICU and then the hospital.

I don’t think one can ever get used to witnessing death. One can come to peace with it. That’s what I’ve done as my years in medicine accumulate. There is an intrinsic link between life and death. The two cannot be separated and are not whole without each other. In the US, black usually represents death. In many other places, death is represented by white. The more time I spend in the hospital, the more I think white is the most representative of life’s end. Hospital white. A blank sheet. All the shades of light together. The absence of physical color. It seems fitting that death is represented by light and not physical being.

The image of the white bag lingered in my mental peripheral vision for the night. I didn’t know anything about the person whose body was in the bag. Sometimes, one doesn’t need to know the details to understand. Death is like that. Simple once it happens. How we arrive at death is what is complicated. Everyone eventually arrives there at their own time and in their own way. Death is one of the most unifying features of being human. But that doesn’t make it easy. Some things are never easy.

No Alarm Today

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I woke up because my body was ready to leave dreamland behind and start the day. There was no beeping alarm or bright light from my sunrise alarm clock jolting me awake. Today my schedule is fluid. I have a to-do list (I always have one) but today I can ignore every item on the list if I want to. It is a rare day with no objective and no place to be. I could, if I really wanted, lie in bed and watch the day start without leaving the warmth of my covers. Or I could get up and sip mate for several hours. I could sit on the couch and watch the plants grow. I could go for a walk, do a workout, or write. I could do anything or nothing. The lack of expectations and requirements for today is freeing.

No alarm days are rare and lovely. Having spent the past many years in medical school and then residency my life has been filled with productivity and hard work. But, just as too much free time makes me stir crazy, too long spent with an overly packed schedule depresses me. Letting the day begin spontaneously reminds me of my years in Paraguay. In Paraguay, most days flowed in a semi-planned way. My life was free in Paraguay. Even though I had work, obligations, and social activities in the Peace Corps, I’ve never had as much free time during my adult life as I did in the land of the Guarani.

Sometimes, when the sun shimmers into my apartment and my houseplants glow with the joy only photosynthesizing entities have in the sun, I’m transported back to my Paraguay naps and meditations under the shade of the mango trees with the nearby palms swaying in the breeze. On those mental journeys, I’m reminded that quiet is an underappreciated aspect of life. Of course, us humans need purpose and connection to be happy. But every moment needn’t be assigned. The happiest folks I’ve met are those who embrace the slow days when they come, sometimes even setting aside calendar days for nothing. I want to be among the ranks of the happiest people. I think this goal starts with no alarm days. My no alarm days are for basking in the strange meandering that occurs when I decide to let spontaneity determine the agenda.

Today is a no alarm day. The sun is shining. The mate is perfect as the steam curls up from each pour of water over the yerba leaves. The yerba is fresh and so it bubbles. The plants in my house look good. Maybe I’ll water them later because it’s sunny and they’ll need it. Some of my orchids are blooming, some will bloom soon, and some are pondering their future (deciding if they will flourish or die for no reason). My house trees seem tall today. Beyond my plants, through the window, and past the balcony the cranes move. Richmond is constructing several new tall buildings. There are 4 cranes to watch from my balcony. The cars bustle below, sometimes their music is loud. Life continues. I sit. Today is a no alarm day. I’ll probably go for a walk later. But this moment is for drinking mate and observing my plants. What a beautiful moment it is.

Over 48 Hours Without Running Water in the City of Richmond

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“See these?” my mom asked flexing her biceps, “Hauling water.”  

When I was young, my family lived in rural Vermont in a hunting cabin without running water. My parents hauled water from the stream for bathing and we filled jugs at my dad’s work for drinking water. Those years in the woods prepared me for life as a Peace Corps volunteer in rural Paraguay where amenities were often lacking.

When my mom visited me in Paraguay, I flexed my biceps. “See these?” I asked. “Washing clothes by hand.” But it wasn’t just that. In Paraguay the water and electricity went out often. Just as my parents had done when I was a child, I developed ways of conserving water and making do when the utilities were down. One of my kitchen walls was lined with 2-liter bottles (recycled soda bottles) filled with clean water – so I was ready when the water went out. Some of my Paraguayan friends had different water sources from me and therefore often still had water even if I didn’t. My friends in Paraguay were used to the water outages and had a communal approach to getting through those annoying stretches. I could count on them to invite me to shower or to wash clothes at their homes if my water was out for more than a day.

When I returned to the US after completing my Peace Corps service, I figured my only time without running water would be when I was backpacking or camping. Self-imposed in those cases and short-lived. But Richmond surprised me this winter. In classic southern fashion (being from Vermont, I must poke fun at how the southern US handles snow), all went awry when Richmond was hit with a true snowstorm and sub-freezing temperatures. One of the city’s water pumps broke, multiple backup systems failed, and fixing the problem was harder than officials expected. As such, almost the entire city lost water for just over 48 hours and had to boil water for drinking for almost a week.

In the grand scheme of things, no running water for 48 hours and a boil advisory for about a week are insignificant compared to the water hardships many people around the world face. However, I found it interesting that such a utility failure could occur in a modern US city in the absence of a natural disaster. My husband and I (both from New England and used to winter power/water outages) were prepared. We filled pots and buckets with water just before the city turned the water off. We refilled our buckets in the river as needed to ensure we could flush our toilet. I took a baby-wipe bath one day. I washed my hair in the sink another day when the water was starting to come back but we still didn’t have enough water pressure to run the shower. I’ve known how to take a bucket bath since I was a child. Though it is a nuisance; it is simple.

48 hours did not restore the bicep muscles I’ve lost since returning to the US and living with modern, reliable running water and all the amenities that come with it. Yet, during Richmond’s water outage, I found myself flexing my biceps and thinking about the many people across the globe who have unclean water or minimal access to water daily. In the US reliable utilities are taken for granted. Richmond’s loss of water was a good reminder of how precious functional utilities are. I expect Richmond officials to review how the system failed and take steps to ensure such a failure doesn’t occur again. I also consider the water outage an opportunity for myself and other citizens to reflect on the event. In a world faced with global climate change which is leading to more severe weather and more chance for disasters that could cut-off utilities, how prepared are we if the systems we take for granted fail? How does one function without running water? Without electricity? What do we need to learn to be better prepared to navigate these situations when they arise? What can we do to prevent utilities from failing? How can we protect our water resources?