Unravelling
I.I.VI
UNRAVELLING
By the end of those three months, I genuinely felt like I was finally a full-fledged doctor. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I still realised I knew nothing and that I was still an idiot on the grand scheme of things.
Be that as it may, over those three months not only had I survived such a steep learning curve, but I had also managed countless patients, helped them get better and, every once in a while, even got to say I’d saved a life or two. Hell, now I could even use those cool medical drama catchphrases like “Push one of epi!” or “Stat!”.
But all that came at a price. Amongst all the hustle and bustle that came along with starting a new job, I felt like I had kinda lost myself – again. In my one-track, monomaniacal obsession to be extraordinary at my job, I ended up foregoing everything else.
Suddenly, I had no personal life, no social life, no love life, no life outside the hospital. Hell, I had even broken up with a gorgeous Colombian model I’d been dating for a few months. I was taking all the extra shifts I could, working one hundred-hour weeks for weeks on end. It wasn’t for the money or cause it was expected of us, though. It was just so damn fun – and educational. Every on-call shift offered more learning opportunities than any book or lecture ever could. As the saying goes – see one, do one, teach one. I learn by doing, and so I chose to do more.
For the best part of three months, that’s how it went. And I wouldn’t have had it any other way. Plus, it’s not like there was much to do outside the hospital anyway. Back in summer 2020, lockdowns and quarantines were still haute couture. It was the perfect excuse for me to indulge in my newfound addiction. But when the whole COVID-19 thing got too old, people got used to it and we started going back to normality, it did get a bit suspicious when I chose to remain a hermit. From social butterfly to asocial turtle, the hospital seemed to have become my very safe, very comfortable shell.
After what most would refer to as an intervention, my friends practically dragged me to a party. It wasn’t my crippling social anxiety that made me realise something had to give. It wasn’t my alcohol intolerance that made me realise something had to change. It only took a photo. The same shirt I’d worn only a few months before – the very same shirt which most would have described as life-threateningly tight – was now hanging loosely over the skeleton wearing it. In just under three months, I’d lost over ten kilograms. Over those three months, I’d been smoking like a chimney, skipping workouts and working through breakfast, lunch and dinner more often than not. Over those three months, I’d been eating, breathing and sleeping medicine. That’s it.
So much for love, adventure and wisdom. So much for Eudaimonia. I’d given it all up for medicine. All the progress I’d made over the past few years – gone, vanished. Once again, I’d lost myself to yet another addiction. Once again, I found myself saying no. No to going out. No to dating. No to reading. No to writing. No to dancing and singing and having fun. I was practically a lifeless robot. It was just work, work and then more work. My copy of Shonda Rhimes’ Year of Yes must’ve been turning in its bookshelf back then. Something had to give. It had to.
I wasn’t actively unhappy. I was too enthralled by my new work ventures to be unhappy. But when I looked at that photo, I was almost repulsed by what was right in front of me. And, even worse, by what I could see in my future. The bright and shiny, happy, curvy me – gone, leaving behind a shrivelled shell of what he used to be.
And so, I decided to give the work-life balance approach a try. I stopped taking extra shifts. I gave up smoking (for the 700th time). I started working out again. I started going out again. I started dating. I started writing again – finally getting back in touch with myself. The aroma of antiseptic and bodily fluids that had taken over my olfactory senses suddenly gave way to the smell of fresh pine and salty sea breeze. It wasn’t just dull corridors and wards and cubicles anymore – it was also woods and beaches and valleys. My social circle suddenly grew bigger than colleagues and patients. Finally, I was living again. Something I had no idea I wasn’t doing before seeing that photo.
Ever since I’d decided to become a surgeon, it had been my one and only goal. I’d sworn I’d dedicate my entire life to it. But back in med school, I came to realise that I could do more, that I could be more. I could still become an extraordinary surgeon even if I prioritised other things in my life. Actually, I realised I’d probably become an extraordinary surgeon precisely because I prioritised other things. Prioritising other things wouldn’t mean I’d be unfocused or alienated or that I’d lose my passion for medicine. It’d mean learning new things that would make me a better person and, in turn, a better doctor. It’d mean avoiding burnout. It’d mean enjoying life for everything it has to offer.
