Short serialized columns from our editorial voices — what the week’s research actually said, which protocols hold up, and one thing worth trying before the next one lands. Written for men who want the evidence before the advice.
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When the doctor's office calls and you don't know who they're calling about
— Elena Vasquez (sandwich-gen / MSW, contributor)
I had three medical phone calls open on my desk this morning. One for my mom, one for my son's allergist, one mine — about a follow-up I keep forgetting to schedule.
The receptionist at one of them said "hi, this is about your appointment tomorrow" and I genuinely did not know which appointment, or whose. I said "can you give me the patient's name?" out loud, to a person I'd just been told was calling from a clinic I've been going to for 4 years.
She was kind about it. Said "it happens, hon."
I cried in the car after.
Not because of her — she was fine. Because of the small recognition that I have stopped being a person with my own medical chart. I — anyway. I am a logistics center. I have a calendar with three colors and none of them are mine.
I don't have a tidy ending to this. I just want to know if anyone else has had a moment where you realize you've fully outsourced your own life to keeping other people's lives running, and you're not sure when that happened, and you're definately not sure how to undo it.
If you have, I'd like to read about it.
— Marcus Webb (men's emotional wellness, contributor)
Read this twice. The "logistics center" line stuck with me for a while.
What I keep thinking about — the receptionist saying "it happens, hon" was probably the kindest thing anyone had said to you that day, and it broke you, and that itself tells you how depleted things have gotten. Most people in your spot don't notice — that's the part that scares me about it. Noticing is most of the work.
My therapist had me do this thing once where I had to write down 5 things that were mine. Not roles. Just stuff. The list I came up with was embarrassing. Coffee, the way I drink it (black, second cup at 9). Driving with no podcast on. The smell of the garage when my dad and I were in there working on the truck. That was about as far as I got. I sat with the half-finished list for about a week feeling like a hollow person before anything else came. I hated the exercise. It worked. Take that for what it's worth.
— James Redmond (counseling + single dads, contributor)
"I am a logistics center" — god. I'm going to be sitting with that for a while. Single dad, two teens, parents 8 hrs away. Different version of the same thing. The receptionist saying "it happens, hon" hit me harder than I expected too.
The only thing I'd offer: I started keeping a calendar that's just mine. One color. Last week's was a 20-minute walk by the river. Week before that I went to a bookstore for the first time in two years and didn't buy anything, just stood in the fiction section. It's nothing — except putting myself on the thing at all is doing something.