Weary

I'm worn out. I was recently asked by a group of undergraduates whether I have ever regretted my decision to go into medicine. I haven't, not in a truly meaningful persistent way. But I did qualify that statement by saying I have been more tired during moments of medical school and residency than I imagined I could be. It's a daze, a weird sensation of knowing what needs to be done but feeling very little: a pounding head, hunched shoulders, and a craving to just close one's eyes. No matter what the old-timers say, I don't learn in that sort of daze and it puts people in danger. I can feel my response times slowing, my train of thought dwindling away, my words escaping me. I can sense the microsleeps creep up when I am waiting at a red light. It's an awful feeling, and luckily with residency work hours reform, I don't have direct patient care at these times and I can take a nap in the call rooms before driving home.

But it's not only that exaggerated feeling after thirty hours on my feet. It's also the accumulation of years. It's a little sad how long it's been since I've felt completely well rested for more than just a day. And the emotional burdens compound the physical feelings. In the next few blogs, I will try to describe some of the hardest cases that have happened in the last two months. This hasn't been easy, which is not to say I haven't enjoyed it because I've loved cardiac anesthesia. But nearing the end of my first year as an anesthetist, I'm weary to my bones and tumbling from one exhausting rotation to another.