xxx
prev.cont.So weird, this whole year, isn’t it?
There’s only two days left of ICU week. I hope they’re… well, I guess I don’t really hope for anything. I can’t possibly imagine what the days will bring.
I never would’ve guessed that today I wouldn’t say a word to the attending, that I would feel like I might as well not have shown up at all. I definitely wouldn’t have guessed that one of the patients I met earlier this year would show up to the emergency room in extreme pain, and that I would cry when I saw her. Each day is unpredictable, which is both reassuring and terrifying.
I have two more full days of unforeseeable ICU experiences ahead of me. All I can do is keep going: reading my patients’ medical records while I eat breakfast, get to the hospital early enough to check their vitals and write down some numbers and not speak to them (they’re sedated and have tubes down their throats and—), and then maybe present updates on them to the attending and residents, who seem like they’re not impacted much whether I present those updates or not.
To be fair, though, it does seem like little things can make a difference. The practice of medicine depends, more than anyone would like to admit, on whims and instincts. One person’s presentation of a patient could lead to very different decisions.
Or maybe not. The attending makes the final call no matter who presents, and no matter who is present. Maybe this is just a case of being the kid on the playground spinning a wheel attached to a wall, thinking they’re somehow driving. My daily routine gives me the illusion of driving.
The attending, on the other hand, has a wheel that really is doing something. It is doing something, right? It’s not just attached to a wall with no wires coming out, right? Or is she also being falsely led to believe that she’s in control? Maybe the wheel is attached to something, and she’s driving, but she still can’t control the weather. It’s ultimately powers outside of our control, outside of understanding, that make the world go round. But I haven’t heard anybody admit that yet.
Waking up is the hardest part. So is standing up all day, trying to mind my posture. So is the anticipation of waiting to present on rounds, and presenting on rounds, and wondering if there’s something obvious that I’ve missed and that I’m going to be berated for missing it. So is the realization that I’m a kid on a playground playing with a toy wheel. Every part is the hardest part. And yes, I did scream silently as I walked down the stairs at the end of the day.
At the same time, there’s been something magical about this week. I might even be nostalgic for it when the week is finally over. I can’t hate anything, can I? This week, which I’d been dreading for so long, the one that leaves me with a bunch of pent-up rage that needs to get screamed out for minutes on end, is making me feel preemptive nostalgia? Who am I? What’s going on? What does it all mean?
Maybe it’s just the above ground that’s magical. It’s nice just having somewhere to go, something to wake up early for, someplace that I’m expected to be, even if my being there seems to make no difference for the place and its people. It’s the same reason the weekends can be more miserable than the weekdays, the reason why anticipating the weeks is worse than living them.
I guess this can be a lesson: go above ground or you’ll feel bad. Spinning toy wheels is better than rotting underground.
It’s nice that there are lessons every day, but there are too many to remember. I could never keep them all in my little brain, not with everything else that I’m supposed to keep up there, like how strep throat can lead to rheumatic fever, which can lead to heart disease.
Maybe someday I’ll read this and remember some of the old lessons and have the experience of learning them for the first time. As my brain continues to rot away from all the misery and vices and aging, at least I’ll always be able to read this and recall the insights earned by my younger self through hard work and doing stuff he hated.
People are starting to come around to the fact that the weird year is almost over, that this too shall pass. The small talk has shifted from “can you believe it’s the weird year already?” to “can you believe the weird year is ending?” It feels good.
Eight more weeks. That’s nothing!
exit