It all started with an email to my husband…

“Dear Dr. Mallin:

I am reaching out to share an opportunity that may be of interest to you or a physician educator in your network. American University of Antigua, AUA, is conducting a search for a Chair of Introduction to Clinical Medicine within the Universities’ School of Medicine. This is a unique opportunity to influence the future of medicine and medical care within the US while living in the Caribbean…”

He forwarded it to me, stating he had jokingly replied with a CV. My remark – “For real? Perfect, I’ll get a job at Eric Clapton’s tx ctr there,” to which he replied only with a smiley face. Granted we loved the Caribbean; love diving, enjoy traveling there; had friends on several islands. And my husband was getting a little bored with his job and was looking for a challenge. But move? Leave Charleston? No way. Not going to happen.

Four days later, we were invited to Antigua for interviews. We decided to go, figuring that the free trip to Antigua was worth it. Thinking, “What is the worse thing that can happen? – We could like it and decide to move there.”…still a win-win situation in our minds. We either stayed in Charleston or moved to the Caribbean. How bad could it be?

The island, with its 365 beautiful beaches, was breathtaking. The resort we stayed in – not so much. The beach was great, and the staff friendly, but every night there was karaoke being sung loudly outside of our rooms until way past my bedtime. And not good karaoke either…if you can imagine a bunch of international tourists (meaning strange accents) drunk and singing the “Hokey Pokey.” Which actually sounded a little better than the runner up favorite of “Knock Three Times.” I hated that song back in the 70s when Tony Orlando and Dawn sang it, and I still do.

But the school was impressive, and the faculty excited about their plans to make the Caribbean medical school into one that could compete with U.S. schools. By the second day there, I knew in my heart that we were going to move. And realizing that, I found myself having to fight back tears.

How bad could it be, right?

Next thing I knew, we were handing in our three month notices.

It was quite a difficult decision – much harder than I thought it would be. After all, we weren’t committing to forever, just a few years. Yes, it is a great opportunity, and yes, it is a beautiful island, and yes…I could go on and on. After giving notice, I had moments of disbelief and excitement; to be living many people’s dream, to be able to dive whenever, never wear heavy coats, not have the hassle of being limited to 10 minute patient visits…there were many positives to it. And don’t get me wrong, going there was a mutual decision, and I was as excited about this adventure as was my husband.

It wasn’t going to be all sunshine and coral though…there were negatives. I had wanted to be a doctor since I was 14, spent a few years as a surgery resident and then was unable to practice medicine for several years. I struggled to get back into medicine and truly treasured my profession. I loved what I did. I loved my patients and my office staff. And even though I was talking to the staff at Crossroads, Eric Clapton’s drug and alcohol treatment center, there were no guarantees that I would ever be able to get a license on the island. It’s very difficult for a U.S.-trained doctor to get a medical license there. At first I would be teaching at the medical school three days a week – not a bad job but not my dream.

That was the main negative. Others included things like being far from family, no 5k or 10k runs every weekend, no air conditioning, no bathtub or clothes dryer in the house, no Target or Stella Nova. No Publix. But I figured I could live without them, at least for awhile. And I ultimately decided that a few years as a medical school professor could only strengthen my professional knowledge.

Those three months were so hard. Saying good-bye to patients often left us all crying. I couldn’t imagine not hanging out and laughing with my co-workers. And with my running buddies, cycling friends and folks from my12 step program, I had so many different groups to say good-bye to that I actually ended up with several going-away parties.

It was at one of those parties that I had one of those “ah-ha moments.” I looked around that room and remembered where I came from. Growing up we moved every year or two due to my dad’s job. I had always envied people who had friends that they grew up with – those who shared memories of 1st grade, their first period and their first boyfriend. The ones who remembered the metal braces and disappointments over who did or didn’t ask them to the prom; the friends, especially women, who really knew and loved one another. I never had that. Over those years, I had developed a coping mechanism to allow me to be okay with leaving people behind, to not hurt too much. I learned to be superficially friendly, and do what I needed to do to fit in. I became a chameleon. I never realized who I was and I never really let anyone else in…especially not women. I had always felt lonely and like an outsider. Sometimes all I thought I wanted out of life was to fit in.

At that party, I looked around the room, filled with laughing, beautiful, bright, outgoing, caring women; friends from all the parts of my life. Who actually KNEW me…and loved me. My heart was full as I realized that I had finally figured out who I was and that I had the life I had always wanted. I finally fit in.

And yet, I was leaving this all behind. Amazingly, instead of sorrow for what I was “losing,” I felt hope for what I might find on this new journey. I felt that since I was taking “me” with me, that same multifaceted woman with an open heart and mind could develop meaningful relationships wherever I went.

I’ll let you know how that turns out…

Bulletin-immediate broadcast requested… Hurricane Frances local statement…national weather service, Charleston, SC… tropical storm frances strengthens… a hurricane warning is now in effect for the following counties… Charleston, Georgetown and Horry…

A normal person would start to get nervous with above forecast…not me. Guess I’m not normal…hmmm, what a surprise.

Anyway, I’m not talking about a Category 3 or above hurricane, who needs a disaster? I’m talking about one of those wild, steamy, sultry, waves crashing and thunder booming storms. Man, talk about steamy…my libido goes wild! Something about all of that raw exposed natural power. Nothing enraptures me more, making me want to light those scented candles and strip down to my best lingerie quicker than thunder, lightning or wild tempestuous winds.

My husband and I had been dating several months when he discovered this little carnal secret of mine. It wasn’t during a hurricane or a tropical storm, it wasn’t even a particularly hard rainstorm, probably just a typical April shower, but it sure did get me all hot – although at the beginning of relationships anything can get you hot, right? My husband is no dummy; he promptly went out and bought a CD titled Storm Sounds…60 minutes of torrential downpours, claps of thunder and blustery squalling winds. He actually brought it along on our last trip to the Grove Park Inn. I didn’t think the Grove Park experience could get any better, but it did. Try combining a day spent under the spa waterfalls, floating in the mineral pool, and a romantic couple’s massage with a little storm action. It doesn’t get any better than that!

I’m not sure what it is about storms that make me want to crawl in the bed and luxuriate in all of my senses. The feel of water, soaking in warm, silky, lavender or ginger scented bathwater, the salty, sandy water sprays from the ocean hitting my sunburnt skin. I love how everything smells so fresh and clean right before a big storm. And that quiet before the storm. The way thunderstorms begin with a palpable electrical charge in the air – a slightly metallic taste or sensation. How flashes of lightening outline the streaky rivulets that rain makes running down the windows, the house shaking with the loud crashes of thunder. Our old house had an almost musical tin roof. I miss the way it magnified the rain but we do have skylights here, and they aren’t bad either. And wind chimes. Don’t forget the wind chimes – did you ever see Body Heat with William Hurt and Kathleen Turner? Now that’s what I’m talking about.

I guess that covers all the senses except taste…all I’ll say about that is don’t drink the rainwater. I once got a parasite by doing that and had to spend the last days of my honeymoon close by the toilet.

Enough about that.

You’ll notice I said crawl into the bed and luxuriate. Maybe I’m getting old but I’ll take 600 count sheets over a sandy blanket anytime. Although, my husband and I did journey out onto the beach during the last storm, and it was truly exhilarating. The frothing waves were pounding the shore, and the tempestuous wind was raging! I tried to suggest a little outdoor storm action but he was more interested in playing “Storm Watch weatherman.” You know what I mean, imitating Jim Cantore struggling to stand straight with the sideways rain pelting him while making inane comments like “don’t try this at home.”

OK, let’s be honest, I was actually the one playing weatherman, and he was the one making lurid suggestions – it seems that my passion has rubbed off on him.

Well, hurricane season does come every year. And we can always visit, or even move, to some tropical rain forest where there are multiple opportunities for acting out my storm fetish. My husband is a lucky man.

…Frances continues moving westward as a strong category 1 hurricane…hurricane force winds extend outward up to 70 miles… 110 km… from the center…and tropical storm force winds extend outward up to 180 miles… 290 km. For storm information specific to your area…please monitor products issued by your local weather office. The next advisory will be issued by the national hurricane center at 11 pm.

Everyone has heard, or even said, variations on this theme. Those disparaging remarks such as, “you’re just like your mother,” or frustrated comments like, “I hate when Dad does that, I will never be like him.”

Yet frequently we grow up to be just like those people we swore we would never become.

Maybe that’s not such a bad thing.

Although you could never have convinced me of that while I was growing up.

Being the oldest child in a dysfunctional family gave me a specific role, the hero child, the peacemaker. Learning early on how to read the mood of the house, I could tell you within seconds of walking in the door from school whether it was going to be a good or bad night. As a young child, I would try desperately to change a potentially bad night into a good one, usually without much success. As a young adult, I just hid in my room and read novel after novel, tuning out the shouting voices and slamming doors.

I didn’t move away from home until I left to go to medical school. I lived at home during college for several reasons. Consciously, it was cheaper, and my boyfriend was planning to stay in the area. Subconsciously, I was afraid to leave my family. That hero role left me afraid that everything would fall apart if I left. But my survival instincts, manifested by my desire to become a doctor, were so strong (I was so certain that becoming a doctor would “save” me) that ultimately I was able to leave, only to find myself right back in the same situation.

Within a year of leaving home, I had met and moved in with the man of my dreams. A perfect match. Before I knew it, I was playing my mom’s role, and Joe had become my father. He drank too much, and I was certain that if only I were thin enough, smart enough, witty enough, athletic enough, kept the house clean enough, cooked well enough, was sexy enough, he would love me and not drink too much.

But, of course, nothing I could do would change him. I tried everything I could think of, including drinking alcoholically with him and acting out in outrageous behaviors just to try to get his attention. I would have done anything to get him to love me. Well, almost anything. When he began to get physically abusive, my survival instincts once again empowered me to take care of myself and I was able to leave.

I swore I would never get myself in that situation again. I would not be my mother.

No. I became my father.

There never really is any escape, is there?

Genetics. I inherited many things from my dad. Put the two of us side by side and some of them are obvious. We have the same facial shape, similar eyes, the same mouth. We even grin the same way. And though I didn’t get his high cholesterol, I did get his alcoholism.

I never even saw it coming. I graduated from college magna cum laude, went on to medical school and residency. There might have been some hints when my drinking escalated during that relationship with Joe, but for the most part, I was able to keep things under control until sometime during my residency, when I began to cross the line from social drinking to alcoholic drinking. Afraid to drink too much, with my access to prescriptions, it wasn’t too long before pain pills became my favorite brand of alcohol.

I was married, twice, during my drinking years. Both times to good, intelligent, caring men. The failure of our marriages was not their faults. I was too self-centered and in love with my addictions to give much to anyone else, including a spouse. In that sense, I was again acting out my parent’s marriage. Only this time, I was in my dad’s role.

I fought getting sober. I had to lose a lot: my marriages, my medical license, my self-worth, my integrity. I spent several years in and out of treatment centers. I just couldn’t accept that I was an alcoholic. I could not be just like my dad.

I never asked him for help, even though he had long since stopped drinking. Both he and my mom had become active in 12-step programs and were no longer the people who raised me. If anything, I blamed him for passing on this disease – this affliction – this embarrassment – to me.

April, 1996: I had called my parents to tell them that I’d been kicked out of yet another treatment center for sneaking out and drinking. I was telling my dad once again that I was sorry, that I didn’t mean to keep getting drunk or causing them pain. As I told him that I loved him, he made some smart comment like, “Yeah, right. If you love us so much, why do you keep doing this?” I vaguely remember hanging up in tears.

A few days later, I received a letter from him. Something about the honesty, compassion, and understanding he showed in it touched me to my core, helping to thaw some long-forgotten part of myself. I still have it, tucked in my jewelry box, with all my valuables. It reads:

As I read my father’s letter, something seemed to break open inside of me. Some crack appeared in the armor that I had spent years fortifying, one drink or drug at a time, and I was somehow able to want to be sober. To want to get better. That was over eleven years ago, and I haven’t had a drink (or pill) since.

Recovery for me entailed working on not only my alcoholism, but also my “child of an alcoholic” issues, learning how my behavior was driven by the voices of the past and how to keep those negative voices in the past and to replace them with healthy, empowering voices.

On a hot July morning in 2002, I was lucky enough to marry a man who reminds me of my dad, the way he is today. Not the chronically tired, selfish, emotionally unavailable drunk of my childhood, but the caring, perceptive man who wrote the above letter. A man who can be real about his feelings, who can own up to being wrong, who can love unconditionally, who is confident enough to allow me to just be me.

My life is complete today, and it all came as a direct result of the very thing my dad gave me that I never wanted. I have turned out to be just like my dad. What a gift.

I am racing through my house, grabbing pants and shirts, underwear and socks…hoping they’ll match as I stuff them into an overnight bag. Trying to pick things that will be comfortable for hours spent in the ICU waiting room. No matter how hard I try not to, I keep imagining my dad, wearing one of those blue and white patient gowns, the EKG monitor beeping, oxygen tubing in his nose. Thinking about how vulnerable loved ones look, lying there in hospital beds.

Thinking of my dad as vulnerable scares me. It also reminds me of the first time I saw him as anything other than Dad, that all-knowing, supremely secure superman. The first time I thought of him as a regular person, with normal hopes, fears and dreams…

I was nineteen years old, working at the local Hallmark store, living at home while putting myself through college. One day my dad stopped by the store, a fairly uncommon occurrence. I’ll never forget how he looked when he walked in, dark shades covering his eyes, pants a little tight around the middle, a shamed look on his face as he slipped his glasses off. The bags under his haunted eyes made him look far older than his early forties. A desperate tone was in his voice as he asked, “Do you think I’m an alcoholic?”

I had never thought about it. Looking back, I guess I was just as much in denial as he was. I knew he and mom had arguments about his drinking, but I’d always thought that was just her. Before that day, I never knew that he had doubts or fears or questioned his life. I had been hidden away in my room, immersed in biochemistry, anatomy and calculus…trying hard to make straight A’s and fulfill my dream to become a doctor and escape this room, this life.

Eventually my dad did decide that he was an alcoholic. He and mom started going to 12-step programs, and they became different people; happy, content, free. Twenty-five years later, he is still sober, and they are happier than ever.

As for me, I did become that doctor. Also an alcoholic…but that’s another story. That day as I ran through my house, I wasn’t a doctor or an alcoholic…just a scared daughter with a father facing urgent heart surgery.

Six months earlier, I suggested that my dad get an ultrasound of his abdomen, to check for an aortic aneurysm. New studies had come out recommending such studies for men over 65 who smoked. So, he did. And it showed a 4.5 cm ballooning of his aorta. Not yet 5 cm, the magic size for surgery, his doctor planned to recheck it in 6 months. I just hoped it was really slow growing.

Well, I was wrong.

Two weeks ago, his new ultrasound showed it at 5.5 cm. A fast-growing aneurysm, meaning he needed surgery fairly soon. And this was a really big operation. I began to wish that I had never told him to get it checked, as if somehow not looking for it would have kept it from being there. Delusional I know, but I so dreaded him having to experience the pain and risk of such a big procedure. And I was afraid. Having too much medical knowledge is not always a good thing. I hadn’t done 4 1/2 years of a surgery residency for nothing. I imagined being in the OR, taking the scalpel and opening his abdomen, dissecting out his aorta and then running into some difficulty like having too much bleeding or…etc, etc, etc. All kinds of horrible things ran through my mind.

Finally I just had to make myself stop. I was making myself crazy.

As part of his pre-operative workup, a stress test was done. It was abnormal, so he had a catheterization and was found to have 100% blockage of his main coronary artery and 85% of his others. He was a walking time bomb…a heart attack or a ruptured aneurysm just waiting to happen.

All of this leads up to where the story started. Me, running around, trying to pack while fighting back tears and trying to stop those operating room tapes from playing in my head. With such severe heart disease, his doctors wouldn’t even let him leave the hospital and scheduled him for urgent open-heart surgery the following day, the day before Thanksgiving.

I had left the house and was about 45 minutes into the five-hour drive to Raleigh when I got a phone call that the surgery was delayed until the day after Thanksgiving as the OR was completely booked for the following day. Exhausted, I returned home, leaving my bags packed, planning instead to head out on Thanksgiving Day.

My family had Thanksgiving dinner in my dad’s hospital room. Mom made turkey sandwiches and brought them, along with pumpkin pie and whipped cream, to the hospital. My husband and I, my sister and her partner and mom and dad ate and shared and cried and loved. My dad was the only non-medical person in the room – the rest of us were all nurses or doctors with full knowledge of the risks and complications that the following hours, days and weeks could bring. When I hugged my dad goodnight he had tears in his eyes, and his voice shook. I thought my heart would break as we sat there, holding each other. My mom stayed the night with him, and when we kids walked back in at 6 in the morning, they were laying there, quietly talking, holding hands.

My dad’s surgery went well. He is still in the hospital but should be going home soon. He still has the next surgery to get through. I can’t even think about it yet. It’s too hard watching him hug that big red heart-shaped pillow to his chest, trying to blunt the pain as he coughs, knowing that his legs are swelling so much that he is wearing TED hose, his voice cracking as he tries to sound strong on the phone.

I love my dad. I hate seeing him, or anyone I love, in pain…whether emotional or physical. Watching him go through all of this has brought up all extremes of emotions for me. I am reminded of a favorite childhood story, The Velveteen Rabbit. And of how pain leads to growth and growth, along with love, helps make us real. And that real people have emotions and show vulnerabilities and in doing so, allow others to become real.

Thank you Dad, for showing me how to love and how to be real. Even though it hurts.

When I read that Sasee was expanding its circulation to include Boca Raton, I settled back into my chair and let the memories began to flow. Good ones, like running down A1A and through South Inlet Park while training for the Disney marathon, attending Ballet Florida’s yearly production of The Nutcracker, watching the rich and famous stroll South Beach. The not so good ones…well, I’ll talk about them later. Suffice it to say, Boca is a place of extraordinary importance to me.

I am a Carolina girl through and through. I love the smell of the marsh and the changing of the seasons. I love soft southern accents and country music. Although I may have tried to delude myself into thinking that I was a sophisticated, urban traveler, before my Boca days I hadn’t traveled much, and I’d never lived outside of the Carolinas.

And there I was, stepping off of a plane in West Palm Beach, no less. Being met by a big guy holding a sign with my name on it. Boy, I had arrived.

Not.

That big guy was driving a white van that was taking me to long-term drug rehab. I thought I would do my time, three months or so, and get right back on that plane, right back to my Carolina. Back to my old life in Wilmington. My nice job as a physician, my new condo complete with ocean views, jeep, Miata and wave-runner. It took me many months to realize that my old life wasn’t quite as I imagined it. That, in reality, I hadn’t been on the wave runner in months. As for the ocean views, everyday when I came home from work (well, until I lost my job), I turned the air conditioning on high, pulled down all the blinds and drank to oblivion, alone in the dark on my nice leather couch.

But I jump ahead.

I stayed in that particular rehab about six weeks before going AWOL and getting drunk. After a weekend in detox, it was suggested to me that I try another rehab. (That is, if I ever wanted to practice medicine again.) Fortunately for me, there seemed to be rehabs on every other corner in Florida; I guess sunshine and orange juice are good for recovery. Anyway, I only made it about four weeks in the next one before going AWOL again. This time I was really scared. I knew something needed to change for me. I could no longer hide from the reality of my old life and the worsening downward spiral of my current one. I was homeless, jobless, broke and desperate.

One of my counselors suggested I try the Lighthouse, a halfway house in Delray Beach. Seeing no other options, I did. And miraculously, with a lot of help, I was able to stop drinking, and my life began to improve. Along with the many treatment facilities in South Florida, there are tons of recovery groups. I found one that I made my home, and they provided me with support, love and strength.

I “graduated” from that halfway house after six months. It felt as monumental as graduating from medical school. I put aside the dream of returning to medicine and concentrated on getting well. It seemed too soon to return home. I knew I wasn’t ready. So I found a great little apartment in downtown Delray Beach. All that was left to do was find a job. Not an easy task for a budding surgeon without a license. But, a very kind library director saw something in me and gave me a chance. I became a library assistant, the perfect job for someone who loves books and reading.

I developed a life; a healthy sober one. That’s where all the happy memories come in; window-shopping in Mizner Park, going to Sun Fest, snorkeling in Gumbo Limbo Park. Before I knew it, I had developed roots, made friends. Traditions were started, like the annual running of the Festival of Lights 5K race, celebrating every Christmas at my friend Ariel’s annual holiday dinner and spending anniversary nights at Wayside House.

I hadn’t returned “home” to the Carolinas during those years. I suppose I was afraid. Not so much that I would drink again, although that was a concern, but that there were too many difficult memories for me there, including people I used to work with or friends I had let down. Boca and Delray had become safe havens for me, and I wasn’t sure what would happen if I left those county limits. Then one day, I picked up one of Pat Conroy’s books and almost cried at his description of the Lowcountry. He wrote of being among the oyster beds and putting one’s hand deep into the pluff mud, scooping it out and inhaling the distinctive, unique marsh scent…and with an almost visceral longing, I wanted to go home.

I planned a weekend trip back to Charleston for the Cooper River Bridge Run. I was so nervous leaving Boca early that cool April morning, the Miata’s top down, the scent of orange blossoms filling the air. I was wondering if I would feel like I was home, or if I would find myself wanting to run back to Florida.

The question was answered along a stretch of Hwy 17, just this side of Beaufort. The road, shadowed by overhanging live oaks covered with dangling Spanish moss, seemed to go straight for miles before crossing a small bridge and curving just enough to hinder my vision ahead. Abruptly the trees disappeared, their darkness replaced by soft late afternoon sun illuminating a vista of open green marsh grass, broken only by tidal pools and old wooden docks that sagged along the far banks. I pulled over and stopped the car. A large blue heron stood in a tidal pool as a few ospreys flew overhead. The slightly funky musty smell of the marsh filled my soul with contentment. I was home.

It took another year for me to make my way back to the Carolinas. I still had lessons to learn down in Florida, preparation for facing some of those difficult situations that lay ahead of me on my return home. How to handle disappointments sober. How to fall in love. How to fall out of love. When in doubt, how to hang on and just try to do the next right thing…and more importantly, how to know what that next right thing was.

Living on my own in Florida, working in the library and just living life, a day at a time, eventually gave me back the strength and ability to pursue my dreams again. With the support of friends and advisors, I decided to try medicine again and was fortunate enough to get a position in Charleston. I left Florida, at peace with myself, sad to leave new friends, but eager to resume my old career.

And here I am today, back home. Living on the marsh where I can watch egrets and herons play everyday. Where dolphins frolic and every breeze carries that special marsh scent. There is a popular saying in 12 Step groups, “no matter where you go, there you are,” implying that geographical cures won’t fix a person’s problems. I don’t believe my move to Florida fixed my life, but the “people, places and things” I met there certainly gave me the support, strength and opportunities for growth that I needed to get my life back on track.