i just dropped off the kids with my mom for a few hours- and i have that same "what should i do first" feeling that i used to get when i came home after a night on call during residency. when i finally arrived home after 36 hours straight in the hospital.
it was a feeling that might be even better than christmas morning- because you're kind of high from sleep deprivation.
it was the feeling that the world is my oyster. the possibilities endless.
should i eat? sleep? take a shower? play with zoe? hang out with mike? go for a run? go to the market? walk up to haight street? (i was living in san francisco). because doing anything that felt like i was a normal person again was fantastic. i had my life back- after those endless hours of others needs (appropriately) being first- of grabbing food when you could, sleeping for 20 minutes in a chair, not being able to go to the bathroom for hours when there was an emergency- which was often. when you're on call- the adrenaline is on - the stress hormones are up- so, coming home, turning off the pager, and not having to worry about anything was ultimate luxury. mundane tasks were a pleasure. sitting on the couch and watching dragon tales with zoe was heaven.
and i some how managed to forget that in 12 hours it would begin again- but only for half as long. it's amazing what we can get used to. what we can survive. what 'normal' can look like. i can't imagine going back to those days.
there were a few times when, in the middle of the night, i would look longingly at a sick person who appeared comfortable in bed and wish i could trade places. i'd think- so they have pneumonia- not so bad- i'd take it if i could just get some sleep! isn't that terrible.
there were other nights when you were part of something big- you nailed the diagnosis early- got the treatment started and saved a life. or nights when you were really able to spend time with a patient who was alone and scared and had all the night terrors and worries that come on at 2am- only their worries were grounded in their terminal cancer. nights when you "cross covered" someone else's patient and chose wisely and the 'crumping' patient did well- when the steroids worked- when giving blood was the right thing to do- when getting the stat CT scan gave the answer.
and other nights when you ran the 'code' for an hour- following the PEA protocol down to sticking a needle into the area around the heart in a blind attempt to drain a possible pericardial effusion, in a last ditch effort to save a life you knew 30 minutes ago was gone- but you couldn't give up. nights when the giant blood clot straddling the main pulmonary arteries refused to be broken- and you couldn't squeeze blood fast enough into someone bleeding out and you had to make phone calls in the middle of the night to new york to tell someone you're so sorry- you did everything- but their 29 year old daughter was now dead. and so leaving that world- emerging from those halls and smells and florescence lights- felt like leaving a battle field- sometimes victorious, sometimes in failure. gaining perspective was hard- because you had little time to breath- to step back and to reflect. you were afraid if you did- you'd break to bits. because you're facing brokenness- you're looking death in the face- you can't run away from the deep suffering all around.
so you jump back into conversations about play dough and mermaids and life at the office for your husband- and if the electricity bill was paid- and what kind of food to eat. and you crave a good glass of wine and a "friends" episode. and you dream of being a baker or a window washer or something with less consequence- something that doesn't wake you up at night worrying that you wrote the order wrong- and accidentally someone died- dreaming that the worse case scenario is burned bread- or window streaks.
humor helps. and knowing other people who get it. who share the pride and fear and anxiety and joy of helping sick people. and there were times when you needed to surround yourself with these people who lived it with you. but many and most times you needed those who didn't. those who'd known you before you wore green scrubs most days- before you had lost connection with what was happening in the world, before you knew the lab values of 15 people by heart. those who lived across the bridge and taught yoga and hiked- those who came bearing brownies and small gifts for zoe, and necklaces, those who dressed funky and worked in sushi restaurants- those fantastic friends who didn't need to get it- and loved me even when i had nothing interesting to say- when i would fall asleep during dinner at a restaurant. those who'd loved me before i'd even wanted to be a doctor- and stuck with me through the thick of it.
community gets you through.
because we all need reminding of our old parts when we're beginning to wear a new part.
it's true for all of us- in each stage. for me getting used to life with zoe's needs, homeschooling, moving to africa. it's true for my patient with ALS- not wanting himSELF to be lost in his disease. it's true for my funky dressing, sushi restaurant- working friend, who is now a stay at home mom.
so i end with pearl jam
lifetimes are catching up with me
all these changes taking place, i wish i'd seen the place
hearts and thoughts they fade, fade away...
hearts and thoughts they fade, fade away...
i swear i recognize your breath
memories like fingerprints are slowly raising
me, you wouldn't recall, for i'm not my former
it's hard when, you're stuck upon the shelf
i changed by not changing at all
it was a feeling that might be even better than christmas morning- because you're kind of high from sleep deprivation.
it was the feeling that the world is my oyster. the possibilities endless.
should i eat? sleep? take a shower? play with zoe? hang out with mike? go for a run? go to the market? walk up to haight street? (i was living in san francisco). because doing anything that felt like i was a normal person again was fantastic. i had my life back- after those endless hours of others needs (appropriately) being first- of grabbing food when you could, sleeping for 20 minutes in a chair, not being able to go to the bathroom for hours when there was an emergency- which was often. when you're on call- the adrenaline is on - the stress hormones are up- so, coming home, turning off the pager, and not having to worry about anything was ultimate luxury. mundane tasks were a pleasure. sitting on the couch and watching dragon tales with zoe was heaven.
and i some how managed to forget that in 12 hours it would begin again- but only for half as long. it's amazing what we can get used to. what we can survive. what 'normal' can look like. i can't imagine going back to those days.
there were a few times when, in the middle of the night, i would look longingly at a sick person who appeared comfortable in bed and wish i could trade places. i'd think- so they have pneumonia- not so bad- i'd take it if i could just get some sleep! isn't that terrible.
there were other nights when you were part of something big- you nailed the diagnosis early- got the treatment started and saved a life. or nights when you were really able to spend time with a patient who was alone and scared and had all the night terrors and worries that come on at 2am- only their worries were grounded in their terminal cancer. nights when you "cross covered" someone else's patient and chose wisely and the 'crumping' patient did well- when the steroids worked- when giving blood was the right thing to do- when getting the stat CT scan gave the answer.
and other nights when you ran the 'code' for an hour- following the PEA protocol down to sticking a needle into the area around the heart in a blind attempt to drain a possible pericardial effusion, in a last ditch effort to save a life you knew 30 minutes ago was gone- but you couldn't give up. nights when the giant blood clot straddling the main pulmonary arteries refused to be broken- and you couldn't squeeze blood fast enough into someone bleeding out and you had to make phone calls in the middle of the night to new york to tell someone you're so sorry- you did everything- but their 29 year old daughter was now dead. and so leaving that world- emerging from those halls and smells and florescence lights- felt like leaving a battle field- sometimes victorious, sometimes in failure. gaining perspective was hard- because you had little time to breath- to step back and to reflect. you were afraid if you did- you'd break to bits. because you're facing brokenness- you're looking death in the face- you can't run away from the deep suffering all around.
so you jump back into conversations about play dough and mermaids and life at the office for your husband- and if the electricity bill was paid- and what kind of food to eat. and you crave a good glass of wine and a "friends" episode. and you dream of being a baker or a window washer or something with less consequence- something that doesn't wake you up at night worrying that you wrote the order wrong- and accidentally someone died- dreaming that the worse case scenario is burned bread- or window streaks.
humor helps. and knowing other people who get it. who share the pride and fear and anxiety and joy of helping sick people. and there were times when you needed to surround yourself with these people who lived it with you. but many and most times you needed those who didn't. those who'd known you before you wore green scrubs most days- before you had lost connection with what was happening in the world, before you knew the lab values of 15 people by heart. those who lived across the bridge and taught yoga and hiked- those who came bearing brownies and small gifts for zoe, and necklaces, those who dressed funky and worked in sushi restaurants- those fantastic friends who didn't need to get it- and loved me even when i had nothing interesting to say- when i would fall asleep during dinner at a restaurant. those who'd loved me before i'd even wanted to be a doctor- and stuck with me through the thick of it.
community gets you through.
because we all need reminding of our old parts when we're beginning to wear a new part.
it's true for all of us- in each stage. for me getting used to life with zoe's needs, homeschooling, moving to africa. it's true for my patient with ALS- not wanting himSELF to be lost in his disease. it's true for my funky dressing, sushi restaurant- working friend, who is now a stay at home mom.
so i end with pearl jam
lifetimes are catching up with me
all these changes taking place, i wish i'd seen the place
hearts and thoughts they fade, fade away...
hearts and thoughts they fade, fade away...
i swear i recognize your breath
memories like fingerprints are slowly raising
me, you wouldn't recall, for i'm not my former
it's hard when, you're stuck upon the shelf
i changed by not changing at all
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