I broke.
Late in the afternoon after not eating since six in the morning. In the residents lounge after a hug from my fellow junior, we laughed maniacally at the craziness of the day and inexplicably, uncontrollably, the laughter turned to tears. Hot and stinging they coursed down my cheeks.
Last week a job that usually takes four people, a chief, high risk resident, low risk resident, and the elective C-section slate was left to Andrea and I. Two little second year residents. It was only for two days, but it tipped me over.
Its near impossible to put into words the intensity of it. In the delivery suite you have two complicated medical patients, one who just got off the plane from Ethiopia with pulmonary edema and on the edge of a seizure. A set of twins at 28 weeks delivering early. Then all the regular, normal, low risk women in labour. All this AND the dreaded transfer phone. It's ring heard above whatever other chaos is currently reigning, it belts out at a different tone and takes priority. BC Women's is the center for all the emergency transfers across the province for any pregnant woman anywhere who is in trouble and needs a center where premature babies and sick mom's can be handled.
Dr. McTerrified is on the phone from Fort St. Nowhere. Invariably speaking a mile a minute, sometimes a little shake in their voice. With a woman who is in preterm labour, has a blood pressure of 230/120, and is peeing out protein by the truck load. So you answer calmly (despite you own underlying terrifiedness), get all the details, make sure they have had steroids for baby lungs and douse out the fire of their blood pressure. Then you have to decide where they can go. To Prince Geoge, Kamloops, Surrey... no beds. Victoria? Nanaimo? No NICU beds. To us? No NICU beds. Edmonton? Calgary? And the last last final resort: Washington State.
All this with 8 nurses breathing down my neck to check patients, with questions and suggestions. Then one of them blew up at me, frustrated for something I thought I had already taken care of. My calm reply and innocent apology didn't seem to be received. Couldn't she see the drowning in my eyes?
I have a 'Lovely Theory'. Here's how it works. All acts of jerkdom, meaness, and ignorance can only be responded to by loveliness, humour, and humility. Theoretically, the jerk involved will eventually feel like such an idiot for being irrational that they in turn will be lovely. Alas, I'm starting to question the premise of said theory.
I talked to my incredibly wise little sister at week's end, post-call, semi-coherent. Explaining the gory details as she listened. "Rho, they broke me. And I didn't think they could. I'm not sensitive, I have thick skin!" Her reply?
Did you have your Cape? Where you wearing your tiara? I don't think they broke you, its just a chip. You're just cracked, not broken. Crying is okay. In fact, it makes you human.
Human?
Now where did I put that purple cape with green sequins?
2 comments:
This made me laugh. Was I supposed to laugh or cry? Love you.
M
We all need a snatched moment within the cone of silence (think Get Smart). It might be found in the staff toilet cubicle or in the few brief seconds in between one patient and another. But there, you may just be able to just tap into what you need to stay grounded when the earth is continually shaking, wipe the crap off your cape and mend the chip in your tiara.
Dearie, your humanity inspires me.
jude
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