prologue
Today was the last day of clinic. It’s the symbolic final day of the weird year, though there’s still work to do and days to live.
Last night I looked in the mirror like I did when the year started. I stared at the person on the other side, looking for clues. I noticed that there was a real person there. It was the same person who’d experienced all the weird year weirdness. The same person who thought he wanted to be a doctor. The same person who cried after the first day of his surgery rotation, who didn’t say anything when the nurses pinned that little girl onto an operating table, who coached a 20-year-old through psychosis, who tried to convince a 60-year-old that life is worth living.
I don’t know much about the above ground—maybe even less than I did before this year started. The above ground is as mysterious, as inhospitable, as ever. There’ll be plenty of time to figure it all out. If there isn’t, I had a good run.
There’s a clear sense of impending doom. It feels like everything is about to get thoroughly and irreversibly upended, but that's not true. I will leave, and the world will move on. When the weird year ends for me, it’ll begin for someone else. The wheel turns.
I’m not cut out for this. Or maybe it's more accurate to say I’m not willing to cut myself out for this. I don’t think anyone is “cut out” for any given thing. I think we cut ourselves to fit into our chosen roles in the above ground, like cutting off an arm so we can fit through a door.
We all play into the collective psychosis of medicine. I played into it as a medical student by allowing myself and my loved ones to believe that this kind of life isn't so bad, that it'll all be worth it in the end. Doctors play into it by doing high-stakes operations on two hours of sleep, neglecting their families, and humiliating students in front of scrub techs with obscure questions about anatomy. Suffering is happening near and far, far and wide, on large and microscopic scales, and we all continue to play our parts in this hallowed theater.
I don’t know how many times you have to lie to yourself, and how many unique lies you have to tell, to succeed as a doctor. That we're saving lives—that's the most immutable lie we tell. But there are lies you have to tell to be successful anywhere.
The end is in sight, and I know that it’s going to be a kind of death, and death means all of this gets left behind. I want to get it right. There’s a lot of pressure, isn’t there, to live in every moment, because this is it.
It’s been a long-ass motherfucking year. It’s been a long, goddamn, motherfucking year. I can confindently say, right now, with the gift of almost-hindsight, with only two days separating me from the finish line, it’s been a long year.
exit begin