Canyon Suites Review

Now this is a view.

Spouse and I escaped the Frigid North last weekend for some R&R, Vitamin D, Vitamin Champagne and Friendship in sunny Scottsdale, AZ.

Typing this brings psychic pain, since the current windchill feels like six degrees below zero in Minneapolis.

I wish I was being figurative with my language.

A few basics: The Canyon Suites are a distinct part of the (much) larger Phoenician Resort, a Scottsdale classic property nestled into the side of Camelback Mountain.

Seriously, I don’t think current zoning laws would allow a build like this, because it is not just at the base of the mountain but abutted right into the side.

The Phoenician proper is already a great resort, but the Canyon Suites take it up several notches.

From the hotel’s website:

Here’s the lobby:

Check in was seamless. We stayed in a one bedroom suite on the first floor. There was an entry with two closets and a powder room (LOVED the marble sink), a living and dining room, enclosed patio, separate bedroom with a king bed and a master bath.

Not sure if the video tour will work, but here it is:

A few stills:

Here is the marble sink I loved in the powder room:

And the patio:

Added perks to staying at the Canyon Suites included free breakfast, a private pool for suite guests, valet parking and free shoe shine services. I sent some Gucci loafers off and they returned quite spiffy.

For fellow toiletry hoarders, the amenities are Byredo Le Chemin and include face wash, body lotion, shampoo, conditioner, shower gel and soap, plus lip balm and bath salts.

We arrived Friday and went for a run, went for a swim, soaked up some rays and had dinner at the on-property J&G Steakhouse, where the weather was so fine that we ate al fresco.

Then we waddled back to our suite.

Saturday consisted of more running, breakfast (free and still delicious – the Nutella mini croissants should be illegal, but at least the fancy fruit art slightly balanced it out).

I was *so* excited for Saturday night, where we’d planned dinner with my dear friends R. and J.

I brought a hostess gift and I could hardly stand to wait for them to arrive:

We had a drink at their beautiful house in Paradise Valley (the name! I want to live there for the name alone), met their dogs (and I almost stole the tiny one), had a fabulous dinner at Eddie V’s and I smiled so much that my face hurt.

It was a perfect night.

Sunday required burning off Saturday night via a long run, undoing that with the Nutella croissants, then some serious pool time.

I was super jazzed that afternoon because I’d also booked a deluxe facial. The Spa at the Phoenician is located in a building adjacent to the main hotel. As far as hotel spas go, I would rate this a 9/10. The common areas were recently re-vamped and felt peaceful and modern. There is also a really well-curated spa boutique and a separate Dry Bar.

I loved this piece of art in the waiting area so much that I tracked it down and ordered it for Fancy Pants Ranch:

My 80 minute facial was top notch. The only problem was that it was so good that when I was done, I was done.

All I wanted:

I didn’t make it far beyond relaxing on the patio, but that was just fine for our last night.

We returned home Monday, another seamless but sad affair.

Final thoughts: Spouse and I had a serious debate about The Canyon Suites versus The St. Regis. My best St. Regis comparison would be the one in Bal Harbour (Miami), which also involves a single flight (for us) and affords both sun and city amenities. Overall, I would give the nod to the St. Regis, since some suites there have their own private elevators (THE THING I DIE FOR) and there is the winning element of the ocean.

But.

The Canyon Suites were also really, really spectacular. The view of Camelback Mountain was something special and the on-site restaurants and spa give the Canyon Suites an edge. Adding the opportunity to spend time with our friends really makes the two properties a push in the end.

Which means I need to visit both a lot more to collect additional data.

It’s called research.

Minneapolis Halloween 10k Recap

Spoiler: Sometimes things turn out better than you expect.

I’d signed up for the Minneapolis Halloween 10k for one purpose: to get a documented proof-of-finishing time that *might* get me more favorable placement for the “real” goal races I was planning for early 2020.

November 2nd is the last day to submit a proof of time, so racing on October 26th was pushing the envelope a bit.

Especially since it already snowed last weekend in Minneapolis.

My plan was simple: Finish.

Treat the race more or less like a regular weekend run, except with more people.

I was relieved when the forecast suggested low 40s but no precipitation at the start.

It’s the small things, People.

The reality: 41 degrees F. Sunny. Crisp.

Considering that my comfort zone is a limited 71-73 F, my teeth were chattering at the start.

I bought a coffee solely to warm my hands.

Ok, I had a few sips.

The race began.

The start of the race was pretty loose, meaning that there were no corrals and you could step off the curb and cross the timing mat at any point. All 5k, 10k and half-marathon runners started together.

I was fine with that.

Many, many faster people passed me in the first miles. This was not surprising since I started the race fairly early.

Their energy propelled me.

I’d concocted a killer playlist the night before and figured that I would divide the race into 15 songs, 5 for each third.

The race signage was limited, but after 5 songs I thought I would be about 2 miles in.

Turns out it was 3.

I kept running.

Then I noticed a sign that said 4 miles. I checked my watch for the first time.

It said 34 minutes.

This just got interesting.

All I had to do was stay upright and I could finish in under an hour, which would potentially put me in a very favorable position for my 2020 races.

I stayed upright.

Final tally: 147th place. 68th woman. 8th in my age group.

Great start to the day.

#running

#doctormomlife

#doctormom

#happiness

#minneapolishalloween10k

#running

#Minneapolis

Stuff That I Was Into: Summer ’19

Image via HBO

Renata Klein. “I will NOT NOT be rich!” She does not apologize for who she is. I loved her. #Bosslady

This.

Image via Amazon

Fleabag. Flawed, awful, delicious “Fleabag.”

I talked them into letting me sabrage. Again. #stregispuntamita

Platform Golden Goose sneaks.

Tacos. Always tacos.

Bose Soundsport earphones. I did not go into the Apple store expecting to buy these, but they came home with me and they are awesome. The case will charge them and the sound quality is excellent. Penny and I spent nearly every morning together, jogging at sunrise and rocking out.

Speaking of rocking out, we certainly loved Lizzo in Summer ’19. I just took a DNA test, found out I’m 100% Fancy.

My Evolution as Physician

I graduated from medical school in 2001.

It feels like yesterday and a million years ago.

After that, I did 4 years of OBGYN residency and 3 more years of fellowship in Reproductive Endocrinology and Infertility.

That’s a lot.

Since then, I’ve been practicing medicine full time.

“Practicing medicine.” Think about that term. It implies that medicine always keeps us striving and learning, while never being perfected.

During my time as a physician, I’ve evolved. As I should.

These are my subjective observations after nearly two decades in medicine.

What is different for me: 

I have experience under my belt. There are times in medicine where you can’t Fake It ‘til You Make It. I am Board Certified in OBGYN and my subspecialty, Reproductive Endocrinology and Infertility. I earned my stripes. More than 11 years into practicing my sub-specialty, I have seen a lot. When I quote you success rates about my practice, I am giving you facts about my practice. Mine. I have done thousands of egg retrievals and embryo transfers, not dozens or hundreds. Part of counseling patients is discussing the risks, benefits and alternatives to a procedure. We call this informed consent. Of course we do everything possible to minimize risks, recognize and treat any complications, but when you are doing something long enough and with sufficient volume, you will encounter complications and tough situations. I have. It’s humbling. But on the flip side, if you’re a patient, you want someone who can quickly and competently handle a problem, plus keep you out of trouble in the first place. 

I work harder than ever to build relationships with patients. I am genuinely interested in where you grew up, how you met your partner (if you have one) and what your ideal family looks like. The reality is that while many patients will be successful, some will not. Investing in the relationship along the way pays multiple dividends. I have some patients who did not achieve pregnancy yet still express deep gratitude for their care and have transitioned from patients to friends. 

I’ve aged into a new demographic. A whole generation of physicians has now come behind me. It is exciting to meet younger physicians or medical students who are the future of the field. They’re so bright and shiny! I love it. We’re in an age where women physicians get to be their authentic selves and I embrace it all. I love this army of Boss Lady Doctors.

With my darling co-fellow, circa 2005. Babies!

I delegate more. I get it. Patients want access to their doctors, and we should be there for our patients. Should I personally answer every patient’s routine question or call with a non-urgent lab result? Maybe. But with a robust practice, it is impossible to sustain or scale this over the long term. When your patient load is building and time is less limited, I wholeheartedly agree that every patient would prefer to speak directly to her doctor with every question, problem or concern. As you get busier and time becomes your most precious resource, you *must* find a way to divide and conquer tasks. This is true for life at home, as well. 

I am more skilled at having difficult conversations. My specialty requires a lot of them. Patients put their hopes, dreams and resources – emotional and financial – into our care and sometimes, it is not going to work out. It is never easy telling a patient that her eggs are not likely to create a baby. It is not easy telling a couple that none of their eggs fertilized in an IVF cycle and there are no embryos to transfer. While you should always bring your A Game to these conversations, I used to fear and dread them. Now I don’t. I might wish we were talking about something completely different, but I will be present for you and we will figure the next steps together. 

I thank patients for letting me take care of them. This is something I have done for a long time, and I mean it. Thank you for letting me in. Being a physician is a unique profession; we care for others at their most vulnerable and in the end, it is mutually satisfying. A word about thanking patients: do not do this if you cannot be sincere. This isn’t a place for phonies. A healthcare provider I saw once for an acute issue with my daughter asked at the end of the visit what he could do to ensure a five star rating if we received a patient satisfaction survey. That left a bad taste in my mouth. Don’t be that guy. 

I am better about recognizing when my tank is low. I’ve been burned out. Now I’m not. I’ve also come to think of my emotional reserve as a fuel tank: there are times when it is full and others where I am running on fumes. Now I’m better able to determine when I am down to my last quarter tank and then re-fueling prior to becoming completely dry. When I say “better,” I also do not mean perfect.  

I remain a work in progress. 

—————————————————–

What is the same: 

I will tell you “I’m sorry.” I’m sorry that your pregnancy test was negative. I’m sorry for your pregnancy loss. I’m sorry that you have to be my patient in the first place. I will acknowledge the Elephant in the Room. It isn’t a failing as a physician to say “I’m sorry.” Doctors aren’t gods, and I believe the “God Complex” stereotype is woefully outdated. I certainly don’t think of myself as anything other than deeply human, and part of being human is being honest and vulnerable with others. Saying “I’m sorry this happened to you” is often the humane thing to do.  

I understand how much this matters to you. It matters to me, too. Every negative pregnancy test is hard. The one thing I have told myself over and over is that the day a negative pregnancy test stops being hard, I should quit the field. There isn’t room for ambivalence. 

If you send me a birth announcement or a holiday card, I will save it. Not only will I keep it, I will look at it. Often. Especially on tough days. 

If I ever get to meet your baby, I will cry. Probably ugly cry. They will be happy tears, though. 

I stay curious.  

I am always learning.  

I remain a work in progress.  

To The Next Generation of Fancy Lady Doctors

I earned the nickname “Fancy Lady Doctor” in medical school, even before getting the official MD letters behind my name in 2001.

Despite being tongue-in-cheek at its core, the concept of the Fancy Lady Doctor – or FLD – resonated with my classmates.

Several of them started developing their own mini-groups of FLDs in residency programs across the country, but nowhere did it take off like in my own OBGYN residency program at the University of Colorado.

Friends, they still give out a “Fancy Lady Doctor” award at the annual end of the year residency banquet. I die with pride!

When I attended medical school in the late 1990s, there were a few attending physicians who qualified as FLDs, but not many. Ditto residency.

Don’t get me wrong, there were countless wonderful, smart and kind women who educated me, but not many were wearing heels in the OR at 3 A.M.

I have done this.

The culture of medicine has changed since then, too. More women than ever are entering medicine, and now that we are more than half of medical students – and emerging physicians – we can own the space in a way that our foresisters could not. I recognize the debt.

Back to the FLD scarcity in my training: This all changed when I was a third year resident and attended the 2003 annual meeting of the American Society of Reproductive Medicine, known as ASRM.

In the fertility world, the ASRM meeting is a big deal. Nearly 10,000 fertility professionals – doctors, nurses, embryologists, psychologists, scientists and more – meet to learn about cutting edge research and new techniques, tools or devices. There are opportunities to connect with old friends and colleagues, as well as industry leaders.

And there are parties.

Some of this has changed since my inaugural ASRM (it’s toned down a lot), but back then, I was blown away.

Everywhere I turned there was someone with near rock-star status in our field, walking around like a mere mortal. There were parties every night with multiple live bands, cocktails and embarrassingly extravagant displays of sushi. One party had enough jumbo shrimp and lobster tails to fill a bathtub.

And there were many, many FLDs.

Not only were these women smart, well-spoken and professionally accomplished, they looked great. They wore suits or dresses that fit perfectly. They had designer – real designer – shoes and bags. No knock-offs here. They had rings with diamonds large enough to choke a horse.

I had found my tribe.

Fast forward to now: Last week marked the 75th ASRM meeting in Philadelphia, PA. I went.

One day I wore these:

Holy Grail: Fabulous and comfortable.

And I was delighted to connect with a whole new generation of FLDs in my field.

While it’s a surprising position to discover I’ve aged enough that a whole generation has come up behind me – How did I get here? – I really, really like these women.

It makes me happy for the future of our speciality and for women physicians in general.

And, so, a final message to my younger FLD colleagues: Keep it going.

Be smart.

Be fabulous.

Be kind.

Be amazing physicians.

And remember: diamonds are always the perfect accessory.

Especially with scrubs.

This Naughty Dog

Now that I re-read it, the above title sounds a bit provocative, but I’m referring to a specific canine who is, in fact, quite ill-behaved.

Meet Penny.

Ostensibly, Penny is 25% Labrador retriever, 25% standard poodle and 50% miniature poodle.

Plausibly, she is 90% Fozzie Bear and 10% Junk Yard Dog.

Penny arrived on the rebound after an unfortunate incident involving our geriatric poodle, a sudden blinding rainstorm and the swimming pool in the house we had lived in for three days.

R.I.P. Frenchie

I’ll let you fill in the gaps, but this was a Trauma of the First Order for our kids, and suddenly a new dog seemed like an *amazing* idea.

My dear friend M. tipped me off about a breeder of impossibly cute doodle puppies, which is basically the Frankenstein version of mating anything with a poodle.

This girl caught my eye.

Can you even?

After an exhaustive application process including references, vetting, an essay about our family and submission of photos of our living space (I conveniently omitted the pool), we were (barely) approved to spend the tidy sum of $3k+ for this fur ball.

The breeder sent such detailed instructions (14 pages!) about puppy care, including an agreement that we must feed her specific food (purchased from her), how we were required to spay her within 6 months or pay a $5ooo fine, how we should address her when we picked the dog up (no eye contact, she will get in our car and sit in the passenger seat), how we needed a specific carrier to bring her home, etc, that I feared we would be disqualified at the 11th hour from dog ownership.

Much to my surprise, when I met at the appointed meeting spot (Parking Lot B – not A! – at the Gander Mountain in Rogers, MN, 8 AM SHARP!, near the grassy knoll), I was stunned to discover that it was not the 60-ish age breeder but a 20-something proxy who pulled up in a battered Subaru, popped the rear gate and dumped a 3 pound stuffed-toy-come-to-life in my arms, all within 15 seconds.

I fell in love.

Day 1
I swear this is not a “Silence of the Lambs” situation.
Stuffed labradoodle vs. Actual labradoodle

The kids had no idea this was coming, and to burst through the door of Fancy Pants Ranch Deux: Fancy Pants Ranchier and shout, “Who wants a puppy?” was a pinnacle of Doctor Mom Life.

We let the kids name her, and they reasonably determined “Penny” was a good fit. I concur.

We hadn’t had a puppy for 18 years, so the brutal reality of new parenthood struck hard.

I spent the summer of 2018 sleeping on a mattress, constantly touching the dog to see if she moved more than 1 mm, which would prompt complete awakening and a trip outdoors.

I learned quickly what is happening in our neighborhood at all hours of the night. (Spoiler: nothing).

Eventually she became more-or-less continent (my new rugs would say otherwise) and she began sleeping through the night.

But what she never stopped was CHEWING ALL THE STUFF.

To date, Penny has consumed 4 pairs of eyeglasses (including at least one lens, which prompts the question of “How is her colon intact?”, and I am SO MAD because that pair was my absolute favorite), the cushions from two leather chairs, countless shoes, the leg of a coffee table, dozens of eviscerated squeaky toys, 5 leashes, a tube of toothpaste, lip balms, LEGOs, and so many various Barbies and their accessories that she is easily the most prolific Barbie Serial Killer Of All Time.

I’m a good girl, I swear.

Yet.

I am her person.

I see her visually track me as I round the corner of the stairs.

She sleeps curled next to me.

She rests on my foot as I type.

She is so warm and fluffy.

I guess I am a dog person after all.