I make no claim to have battled the Emperor of All Maladies, I have merely doggedly walked under the feet of the insurgents who attempt to stand in the way of the Emperor's tank as it rolls into the square. I loved and resented the experience, captured by their vision and passion, I may even make a career of anti-tank mines myself.
Its a fascinating family dynamic. At its head is the Matriarch, simultaneously commanding, inspiring and terrifying, all the while deeply proud of her brood and how far they've come. The fatherly and jovial Uncle at the height of his career, confident in his inside knowledge of how the whole machinery works, with only occasional sexually inappropriate jokes. Then there's Diva, the sometimes moody and generally demanding teenager. The Adopted Child, sweetly cerebral but easily the brunt of the family's jokes. The Distracted Godfather, now moved on to faster moving races, still an efficient and skilled surgeon but detached from family functions. Last comes the Runt, once dotted upon but now pressured to prove that she can play with the big kids. As a family they can be inspiring, compassionate, blood-thirsty, passionate, and heartless all at once. If you succeed they applaud you loudly, taking credit for having painstakingly formed your skill. If you fail, they step back disgusted at your weakness, sure it is no fault of theirs.
It is one of those rotations in residency that seems like an initiation, a gauntlet designed to prove your worth at every turn. Having survived you now breath easier, knowing comrades have fallen before you, switched to other specialties, left without mental health intact.
Despite the incredibly melodramatic picture I've painted, I'm grateful to the Emperor and the Insurgents for lessons learned...I can say that from the other side.
