Routh Early Career Award: From Pediatric Ninjutsu to Pediatric Psychology

I would love to start this article by saying that I was born to be a pediatric psychologist, that I knew from infancy this is what I wanted to do, and that this is all I have ever dreamed of. Of course we all know that this is untrue or at least greatly exaggerated. Truthfully, my childhood career aspirations included being a ninja, an astronaut, or the pilot of a fighter jet that turned into a robot (this was so I could protect the planet from alien invaders who were 30 feet tall). This all changed in the fall of 1981. At 6 years of age, I spent 2 weeks in the pediatric intensive care unit at Stanford Hospital, admitted for diabetic ketoacidosis (DKA, or ‘‘Dead Kid Already’’ as they called it on the unit). My recollection of the education provided to me at the time was as follows: (1) you can never eat sugar again, (2) you have to take one shot a day for the rest of your life, and (3) there was no chance ever of being a pilot or astronaut because ‘‘diabetics can’t fly planes’’ (remember this was 1981). So at the tender age of 6, having been recently diagnosed with type 1 diabetes, my desired career choices were quickly narrowing (aside from being a ninja of course). I needed a new profession. It is not too much of a stretch to consider that this was the experience that started me on my path toward pediatric psychology. I was discharged from the hospital a few days before Halloween to the Great Candy Prohibition that ruled the pre-Diabetes Control and Complications Trial era style of diabetes management (Diabetes Control and Complications Trial Research Group, 1994). While in the hospital I had made a few friends, including my pediatric intensive care unit roommate who had what I later learned was acute lymphoblastic leukemia. Two lasting impressions stood out to me at that time around discharge. The first was as I cannot have any Halloween candy, I should find a way to give mine to those children in the hospital who could not go out and get their own. The second (and more pertinent to this article) was that having diabetes (and other things that make you stay in a hospital) really stinks and that maybe someday I could make it less ‘‘stinky’’ for kids when I was a ‘‘grown-up’’ (but, for now, giving them my candy would have to do). I had never heard of psychology, much less pediatric psychology. I also did not know what it took to become a pediatric psychologist, what they did, or could do—but, from that moment on, that is where I was headed. Fast forward nearly 20 years to when I began graduate school in clinical psychology at the University of Wisconsin, Milwaukee. After brief stints as a preschool teacher, group home counselor, and jazz musician in the time between getting my undergraduate degree and starting graduate school, I came to Milwaukee to work with two pediatric psychologists (W. Hobart Davies, PhD, and Anthony Hains, PhD). I was drawn to their work because they were training students to make life less ‘‘stinky’’ for children and families with chronic illnesses. During this time, I developed an interest in how, or whether, individuals with chronic illness should disclose their illness to others (Berlin, Sass, Davies, & Hains, 2002; Berlin, Sass, Davies, Jandrisevits, & Hains, 2005; Jastrowski, Berlin, Sato, & Davies, 2007; Marcks, Berlin, Woods, & Davies, 2007). The issue of disclosing information was also my first publication in the Journal of Pediatric Psychology (Berlin, Sass, Davies, Reupert, & Hains, 2005). Generally, this work showed that disclosing one’s chronic illness is generally a good thing. Through these early papers, I learned that I absolutely loved statistics and that using quantitative methods, answering important research questions, and contributing to the research literature were ways in which I could potentially help better the lives of children and families.