Yeah, but not so much in mine…
I’ve been wanting to write random stuff that flows into my head for a while now; but as the VA doesn’t allow you to do the blogging thang I find that the ideas, like mist, evaporate as the day progresses.
The other day I was shocked to realize that I hadn’t thought of many of my classmates from med school. Normally, I’m a nostalgic bittersweet chocolate who finds time to reminisce over past experiences but not now–with this new phase in my life I don’t reminisce–I exist.
What’s the difference? You figure it out.
I also realized that it’s October–officially Autumn ("Tumnus!"). Not so much a surprise to most people–who have seasons and aren’t in residency working 80+hours a week–but to me (who obviously fulfills these criteria) I find myself shaking my head at the speed with which my life is moving. I can only imagine what I must look like, eyes averted from other passers-by, long white coat flowing in the semi-sweet Miami breeze, the city sounds of honking horns and screeches of the above road tram that for unknown reasons only services 1/10 of Miami, brown corduroy purse on my left shoulder, walking fiercely towards the VA. On a mission. To save lives? To sustain the precarious balance between psychotic identity and normalcy? To enable the slow, rusted wheels of the medical machine to run? To learn?
Part of me is leery of reaching out, of making the connections with people who seem to be okay, at least worth a second glance outside of the hospital setting. Part of me understands that if I don’t I’ll end up in an unenviable rut of grunting out of bed like the ogres of olde, shuffling to the shower, driving manically on my way in, seeing patients, rounding with attendings and teams, suffering the nervous hysterics of staff, answering the millions of pages, fighting the traffic back home only to fall, exhausted onto my hard mattress; wondering if I should eat dinner or not. It’s not easy, this life. It’s surely not horrific. It’s just "there". Suspended like particles, in a thick whirling glycerine solution. Moving yet not.
I don’t want to forget who I am. I don’t want to be stuck. I want to blossom without developing the sharp, hard edges that come with residency. Don’t let the training leave me angled, critical edges and condescending glances. Don’t let the frustration shape me into a prickly, pointy porcupine or a melted, gooey chocolate mass, devoid of solidity. Let me find softness, sweetness, femininity that doesn’t just cover my thin fragility.