Immersion

“As my life grows richer within the hospital, it becomes less so outside of it.”  ~fellow third-year classmate.

In those words, my classmate alluded to ever-elusive work-life balance and challenge of maintaining relationships with friends and loved ones while devoting full days and nights to clinical work.  It is not so much the frank amount of time spent in the hospital (although the 80+ hour weeks on inpatient months certainly contributes),  it is the emotional energy required to be in a position of constantly caring.  Indeed, there are days where I am so drained by my patient interactions that I simply haven’t any more emotional energy left to expend.  Sometimes, at the end of the day, I simply cannot give any more of myself to others.   Our relationships suffer because of it.   

Another classmate, in tears, described learning that her friend had died suddenly of cancer during her surgery clerkship.  Our school’s policy mandates no absences except for immediate family emergencies.   Forced to miss the funeral, she clearly was filled with guilt and sorrow.   All of us entered medicine understanding full well that we would have to make sacrifices.   Yet it does not make it any easier. 

Then there is the emotional disconnect.   As I grow increasingly at home in the hospital, I become more isolated from those outside of it.  I’ve noticed it with my friends and even more so with my parents.  My parents are interested; they want to understand.  In our weekly conversations they will ask, “How are you doing? What stories do you have?”   Where do I even begin?   My parents are not physicians, and luckily, have little experience with the medical system.  Even the most superficial conversations require layers upon layers of explanation (think: a resident is a doctor who has an MD but is still training.).  I don’t blame them – how could they, or for that matter, others who have not experienced the immersion that is medical school, begin to understand what it is like?  Many times, we will just end up talking past each other, and that is okay.  I am still their daughter, and it is their concern and willingness to ask and listen that matters the most.

Would I trade this for something else?  No way.  I am truly happier this year than my first two years combined.   Sure, I have good days and awful days, but I am stimulated and challenged every day by what I learn.  I am excited to talk to my patients, to understand their experiences, and learn about their diseases.   I feel the camaraderie of working within a team and a strong sense of solidarity with my fellow classmates.   I see myself growing and changing in ways that I could never have predicted.  Eight months into my third year, I have become tougher and more real, yet I remain an idealist.