Sacrifice
II.IV.IV
SACRIFICE
My time in emergency medicine was… different. It was a period of growth and existential crises, one that forced me to reevaluate parts of my life that had previously grounded me.
It wasn’t so much the medicine itself as it was everything that came with the job. Despite having come a long way in curbing my superiority complex as a doctor, I found myself becoming increasingly intolerant of other people’s ineptitude and negligence. While most of us were running around with our tongues out trying to clear the never-ending piles of cases, some would be hiding elsewhere doing nothing, and others could be found pacing around with blank notes, pretending to be overwhelmed. “It’s always been like this!” our seniors would say, expecting us to accept it and quietly pick up the slack.
Although we only worked around forty-five hours a week, the shifts themselves were relentless and had me feeling like a zombie.
From the second we stepped into the department, we were on our feet nonstop, often barely finding time to eat or grab a coffee. As busy as I was, and as much as I felt like I was thriving, it slowly started to wear me down. Working my ass off while watching others do half the work for the same pay felt unfair, to say the least.
I remember one shift in particular where I was juggling three patients in parallel – one septic, one crashing, one just quietly falling apart – while watching someone else lean against the desk scrolling on their phone, sighing loudly about how “mental” it was. I didn’t say anything. I just swallowed it and kept going – though something hardened in me that day.
What scared me wasn’t the anger itself – it was how quickly it came, how little patience I had left. I’d catch myself snapping and immediately feel ashamed, wondering when exactly I’d become this person. I didn’t want to be bitter. I didn’t want to be cruel. But exhaustion has a way of sanding people down to their sharpest edges, and once again, I had turned into someone I didn’t particularly like.
In hindsight, it was understandable. Over those three months, despite the relatively short hours, I barely had a life outside hospital. I’d be so physically drained by the end of the day that I’d go home and spend most of my time either sleeping or watching TV. I wasn’t burnt out so much as I was exhausted from not living my own life. I had no time for workouts, socialising, or anything remotely restorative. No wonder it all started catching up with me.
I sucked it up and carried on. I figured I’d do my fair share of work, keep my head down, and mind my own business. It wasn’t just good for my peace of mind – it was also the moment I realised something fundamental about emergency medicine: the more you give, the more you take.
Every single patient I saw came with a treasure chest full of lessons. Some were purely medical – patterns I started recognising instinctively, red flags I learned to spot before they fully revealed themselves. Others were social or psychological, forcing me to confront the messy realities of people’s lives beyond their presenting complaint. Addiction, loneliness, fear, denial, grief – all of it paraded through the ED, hour after hour. And the more patients I saw, the more fluent I became in navigating that chaos. It felt like a fair exchange. I gave time, energy, and effort, and in return I walked away sharper, more confident, more competent.
By the end of those three months, I came out of that rotation feeling better about myself as a doctor than I had in a long time. My clinical acumen had grown exponentially, but so had my tolerance for uncertainty and my trust in my own judgement. Emergency medicine had a way of throwing you into the deep end and forcing you to swim, and somewhere along the way, I realised I was no longer just staying afloat – I was moving with purpose.
Where I was swimming towards, however, I had no idea. Surgery or emergency medicine… I’d have to come to a decision at some point. But I was in no rush. There was something else in store for me for the time being…