Inferno

“Heat. Starting in my feet. Feeling my heels press into the floor. My knees lock. My stomach twists. My jaw clenches. My cheeks turn hot. I dream of sinking into the floor, of being swallowed by the earth. What is it this time? I missed a question in my history taking in clinic. My suturing wasn’t aesthetic enough. My suturing wasn’t quick enough. I couldn’t tie knots “square” enough. I did not have a steady enough hand. I couldn’t identify basic anatomy on command. Any misgiving made throughout the course of a long day lit a match in my core. After all, wasn’t it so easy? So basic? These were tasks for a monkey or small child. And hadn’t I practiced? Don’t I care about doing well?

In the days following the completion of my third-year surgery rotation, I have struggled with processing how I feel. Perhaps the most visceral summary is the sensation of this heat, the feeling of shame. A shame that comes with the knowledge that although I approach each day with my full effort and vigor, I continue to slip and fall flat on my back gasping for air. The shame followed me every day, amplifying the voice in my head telling me that I am a failure, that I am in the wrong profession, that I will never be “a good doctor”.

Ironically, for a rotation focused so heavily on repairing the abdomen and GI tract, I left feeling entirely disemboweled. I cared about getting a good grade on my exam and on appeasing endless droves of (with few exceptions) white people by being charming, helpful, and a face that they would soon forget. To reach maximum efficiency as the demands of balancing studying and clinical responsibilities grew, I culled hobbies, fitness, and connections which would bring me joy. I’m not sure when I threw the balance off its axis, but I eventually stopped finding joy in my life altogether, entering a state of anhedonia and eventually mere survival. I felt the light inside of me, representing my eternal optimism boundless energy whittle and nearly extinguish.

And what of the patients? Did I courageously stand by as their fiercest advocate and form bonds which changed my life and affirmed my path and made a difference in their life? No. They were an endless stream of body parts- abdomens, ears, legs, arms, to be repaired and sent on their way. Maybe that is the core of this shame, the feeling of utter futility. I root myself deeply in the welfare of my loved ones, community, and feeling of larger humanity. I deprived myself of all those things, leaving me bare. The coat of armor built from the support of my community, ancestors, and faith in myself evaporating under the heat of the lights of the operating room.

I’m not sure what my other rotations will hold. I’m not sure if days spent in the OR for OB/GYN will be better. I’m not sure when or exactly how I will begin to build myself back up, restore some part of myself or re-form with the lessons learned. I wish I could be more optimistic about my future. But now is the time to rest. Now is the time to heal.”