Wow.
I didn't anticipate such fervor over the whole male circ vs uncirc
issue. I apologize for offending any guy friends and/or
readers. For the record, I have no problem with foreskin in and
of itself. I just hope to keep my professional encounters with it
to a minimum and my personal brushes with it nonexistent. If you
are happy with your turtleneck, then wear it proudly. Who am I to
judge? Really.
**
As my third year nears its end (geez, if I ever become as self-important as these "OMG I save lives and I write! LOVE me!"
folks, please push some KCl into me), one small thing I pride myself in
is that no attending and no resident ever made me cry these past 10
months. Even on surgery.
Well, I've cried at the hospital: once with tears streaming down my
cheeks and cellphone in the stairwell at the VA sobbing "you didn't
call!!" (I know, classy) and
my senior and intern (thankfully, both women and understanding of how
heartbreakingly frustrating it is when a boy doesn't call you when he's
supposed to) finding me and saying "aw, it's going to be okay" and then
having to wash my face before seeing my patient. "Why are your
eyes so red?" my patient asks. My reply: "ALLERGIES."
The few other times I've cried at work were in bathroom stalls after
seeing patients dying or die in front of me. Many people find
tears a sign of weakness, but I don't know how bottling things up and
faking it can be healthier. And I feel so guilty when suffering
is palpable all around me and all that's running through my mind is When will I eat? and When will I sleep?
And sometimes I wonder whether the things we do to and for patients are
really all that therapeutic or if it just f***s up their lives even
more. I got choked up last week when a patient who wasn't yet
aware that his unresectable abdominal mass turned out to be end-stage
pancreatic cancer (which is a redundancy since pancreatic ca of any
kind is a death sentence) asked me how my day was going and if I'd been
outside to enjoy the sun cause the view from his room seemed amazing. Why does it matter how I
am? My days aren't as numbered nor do I have to sell my
possessions to pay off hospital bills. I hated not being able to
say goodbye before he got discharged to hospice. There is no
heroism or idealism or poetry in any of this.
I don't understand disease. I understand death.
(I lie. I don't really get that either).
Had
brunch today with a friend where I told him it's such a strange
business we find ourselves in - it's neither meaningful nor
meaningless, it just is - and I feel so replaceable (anyone can do what
I do) and insignificant (my hands - size 6 indicators and 5.5 overglove
- are small and so am I) and that the world is 95% bullshit and 5% the
startling kindness of friends and lovers and strangers. He says
my outlook is just a defense mechanism and that I'm most likely not
replaceable to those who directly interact with me and that I do bring something to the table. Ha, and what would that be? On a brighter note, in one week, I'll be a fourth-year and begin my internal medicine sub-i!
I look forward to it.
**************
This is what I want (but edited and written better than this drivel...ha):
You. Me. A room with large windows. Creaky hardwood
floors. Middle of nowhere. I want the evening sky marble
pink and red and the dimming light filtering through dusty
curtains.
Turn off your pager, cell phone, Blackberry, iPod, laptop.
The humid air hangs heavy. The summertime heat makes my hair
stick to the nape of my neck. Beads of condensation cling to the
glass of your marigold tea. We just made sangria with a 2004
Pinot from Sokol Blosser and cherries that stain my lips purple.
I'm in my favorite white sundress. Coltrane is on the
turntable. And it's too hot to think. To move. Even
an inch. We are so still and you sit back, legs stretched, your
eyes closed. I fold into you.
There's nothing between us.
Nothing between us but the scratchy music and the air whose scent is
laced with hyacinth and whose breeze makes me shiver.
This is what it means to want in the edge of summer.
