December 12th

These blog posts are thinning out to say the least, partly because I'm busy, and partly because I've already said a lot of things I wanted to. Which is better, repeating yourself endlessly, or staying silent once you've said your piece?

Quote of the Week

  • "This house has been far out at sea all night, |The woods crashing through darkness, the booming hills, |Winds stampeding the fields under the window |Floundering black astride and blinding wet |Till day rose; then under an orange sky |The hills had new places, and wind wielded |Blade-light, luminous black and emerald, |Flexing like the lens of a mad eye." - Ted Hughes, Wind

Wednesday, 15 June 2011

Flashback

Three weeks ago, I took my resits for 4th year. The results would tell me whether I'd get to carry on the degree, or have to repeat a year, or God forbid, change my profession to "social commentator and general dogsbody" (last week, I got news that I'd passed, but six others didn't).

There's something terrible about having to resit an exam, especially one which you spent a year preparing for. The stakes are higher, the potential impact of your actions or inaction more clear. And there's the doubt as you measure yourself against yourself, and the jealousy as you measure yourself against others. And of course, the uncertainty, as you scramble to find out what went wrong, and what to do, all in a limited space of time.

Suddenly, I'd turned back into the little kid who was crying at not getting a math question right. My memory is fuzzy, but I remember sitting at a little blue plastic table that my parents had gotten just for me, and Dad was looking over my shoulder. I had learned about carrying units at school, and I'd been hammering at my workbook for a million years (time passes differently when you're a kid). I was on one of the last questions, the ones that would tell me If I'd gotten the idea of the lesson that day: 11+9=?

I thought to myself: "I know this, I can carry that number forward", and carried forward a little too much, and got 110 instead of 20.

Dad said, "not quite" (or something similar), quite calmly, and I stared at the question again.

When I saw what I'd done, tears started flowing down my cheeks. Dad must've thought he'd pushed me a little too hard, because he went quiet for a while.

But I wasn't crying because I'd been pushed too hard, and it wasn't anything that Dad had done: I was angry at me, because I KNEW the answer - I'd gotten the idea of units, I'd gotten the idea of carrying forward. And I KNEW I could add - but I'd overestimated myself, and didn't think of making that little check of where to put that carried unit. Dad wasn't pushing me too hard: I was the one who was pushing myself, and I wasn't happy because I'd failed to live up to my own expectations, because I assumed I was ok, rather than checking my working.

Fast forward to the present day: I'm not doing basic math anymore, in fact I'm very rarely doing math at all. This is a whole different game, a game played by grown-ups, where the rewards are getting your sick man to tomorrow, and failure is simply not an option: we don't make mistakes, because the consequences are visited on people who put their trust in us. In that sense, I guess I'm still that little kid I was: there's no such thing as getting 9 out of 10 in an exam: it's got to be perfect.

Of course that's not the reality: doctors make mistakes all the time, and med students even more so, but we don't aim for that. No doctor worth their salt will ever stop and say "that's good enough". Our all-or-nothing mentality is probably what really separates us from most other professions. It's what makes doctors workaholics and bad parents, alcoholics and smokers, nitpickers and critics of other peoples' work. It's what makes us more likely to keel over from heart attacks and jump off bridges.

And that's the way it's going to be, for a long time to come.

Thursday, 2 June 2011

It was over, the trepidation and the fear and hesitancy had all built up and been washed away by the exam - and now I walked across a field on the way home, away from the hospital and its examiners and simulated patients, away from the ECGs and plain film radiographs and blood test results that showed heart failure with Kerley B lines and primary hypothyroidism with macrocytic anaemia. I knew I was going back to Northampton tonight, to be ready to watch major thyroid cancer surgery and complete the tasks left in the workbook. But now, right here and now, with the sun in my face and the grass below my formal shoes, I was giddy as a child, I wanted to dance, I wanted to sing, I wanted to scream and shout for all the free time I had between now and when the bus came for me, to take me back to the world of operations and chemotherapy and ward rounds, of workbooks and signatures and reflective essays, of resits and exam results and degrees.

That evening in the field, I didn't do the things I wanted to. But I was glad, estatically and madly glad, which I hadn't been for a long, long time.