Alarm goes off, have 30 minutes to get to the hospital. I've never made it in 30 minutes, and yet wishful thinking justifies the precious extra minutes in bed. Need 7 hours of sleep, but only getting 5 and it's wearing me down. Half-moon bruises persists where sleep-deprivation punched me in the eyes and my brain continues to mutiny against consciousness. I can do nothing about this but to cover with makeup and coax with caffeine. Breakfast on the go - always unfinished.
Oh shit. It's too early and the attending is asking me too many questions I can't answer. I fumble, bumble and finally bullshit. He cocks his head and looks askance, "Ah, no. That's not quite right". Ugh, I feel like an idiot. Because I've lost all faith in my ability to spontaneously generate speech I clutch papers upon papers of patient information, so all the answers about my patients are in front of me. Great idea with little practicality as I find myself flipping through a giant stack looking for a very small Creatinine level. Finally my attending gives up on me and asks the Resident, who of course, has the relevant information memorized. Ugh, I'm a mess.
And yet, the struggle, the shame, the utter depletion of self-esteem does not, cannot stop me from waking up tomorrow and doing this all over again. Call it masochism, call it a Mission; I don't know why I indefatigably struggle to keep at this like some inborn instinct to swim upstream into the hungry bear's paws. I pray this is not a path to self-destruction, because although the small moments of failure feel terrible, the end of the day is usually hope filled; I will be better tomorrow. The intellectual challenge is formidable but I may just have enough mania to keep ascending the learning curve. Pretty sure I was a little salmon fish in a past life, relishing what is hard and near impossible.
I have found my patients to be the easiest and most enjoyable part of the day. They are oftentimes very ill, but I like talking to them very much so and I believe they appreciate the human concern we provide. They are vulnerable, like I have been in many respects of my own life. I know the feeling of having things entirely out of your control. I believe strongly in compassion, even though others don't give it much import it seems. Yeah you get taken advantage of, yeah it makes life harder for you when it seems like you're the only one following a moral code these days. But there's no reason for me to do any of this without my firm belief that I was meant to help people who suffer. Maybe I'm delusional, and I'm for sure overstating my individual significance in the battle to make the world a better place. But even though I am small and weak, being able to offer just the slightest bit of relief and healing brings me meaning.
1 comment:
Aww, Nancy - what a wonderfully honest and painful post. Is this what you spent your birthday writing?
I think you'll look back on this and think "yeah, med school sucked but it's coming to me more easily now"
We had a social hour with some of the surgery residents/attendings, and my drunk attending told us "yeah, you might not know the answer we're looking for, but no one really cares!"
I think there's honesty in that statement. This is the culture created, but in the end, who really cares? Keep that in mind and try to provide the best care you can to your patients, and the rest will come more easily. (or you'll stop caring :) )
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