Sunday Morning

It's a lazy morning admixed with calm and dread. 9 AM. I try not to think of how many (few) hours remain in the day and the horror show of the week to come - more Trauma Surgery: Attending surgeons yelling at each other and residents, residents yelling at junior residents, and everybody constantly on edge. There is hierarchical abuse in this particular system. Don't get me wrong: I have appropriate respect for the orderly nature of hierarchies; it's the abuse and incessant displacement of blame I don't care for. Everybody is told to take responsibility, but nobody does. I could go on ruminating over the absurdly dysfunctional nature of Trauma Surgery, in a specialty that one would think requires a practiced coolheadedness, but then I would succumb to the same nerve-fraying, time-sinking vortex of worry as I and my co-residents experience when actually at work.

In an unusual turn of events, I have had the bright fortune of having two consecutive weekends completely off, a true rarity in Surgery residency. When I saw this on the schedule, about a month ago, I kept mum, in case somebody committed an error, lest I be given a few extra shifts of 24-hour call. However, out of fairness to others, I inquired further and found there to be no error at all. Good fortune had struck in my name after all! If only I could exchange this one celestial favor for something of value, such as a winning lottery ticket (a.k.a. tax on the poor, including a heavily indebted young doctor, on the occasional fortnight). At times, I attempt to bargain (with what, or whom?) for alternate fates, thinking myself to be in possession of valuable leverage. It must be a pitiful site to behold, for those in my midst, a man bartering with an invisible entity.

Few people plan for a windfall, such as my two consecutive weekends, so I have had little time to prepare any plans. Would I have made any plans? Probably not. But it is nice to have tidy explanations at the ready when asked about the nature of things and events.

"How'd your free weekend go?"

"Oh, I didn't have time to make any major plans. I stayed home."

That sounds plausible. Perhaps I'm creating potential excuses for leading such an uninteresting life outside the bounds of the Medical Center. Few (no) people, except for the loved ones in my life, care for how I spent the weekend. Preparing an answer to a question asked halfheartedly, at best, reveals a guilt or dissatisfaction on my end about how things are going.

And it's true: I wish I were much more productive - (1) physically, (2) intellectually, (3) otherwise.

(1) I've been meaning to work out, but food or sleep have trounced those ambitions thus far. I still succumb to the occasional cheesecake and chocolate debauch, and yesterday evening I chose Wendy's over shoulder presses. Either way, my shoulders benefited from the deposition of additional padding. It is always impressive to see how fit some seasoned physicians used to be and how much they've allowed their fitness to diminish. Since childhood, I have prioritized physical fitness as a primary means of enhancing 'wellness' (a term I shudder at using, if not for its societal commodification) and never thought I'd allow this to lapse. As with most things in my current endeavors, this continues to be a work in progress - i.e. I'm not working on it at all.

(2) Novels and study materials pile up unread as I fritter away, resting from work.

(3) I have grand plans baking ever so slowly in my head which never come to fruition. Most people probably do, and in most lifetimes they stagnate unrealized.

(3) deserves greater mention. The late, great James Michener comes to mind. He led a fulfilling life of travel and prolific authorship. As a young adult, Michener took a solitary road trip throughout the United States, but his career as a writer began with a life-altering event, described by Steve Berry in the introduction to his novels:

World War II changed everything. At age forty Michener enlisted in the navy, where he discovered the enchanting South Pacific. He earned the rank of lieutenant commander and was made a naval historian, assigned to investigate cultural problems on the various islands. A near-fatal crash landing on French New Caledonia altered the course of his life. He wrote in his autobiography, "As the stars came out and I could see the low mountains I had escaped, I swore: 'I'm going to live the rest of my life as if I were a great man.' And despite the terrible braggadocio of those words, I understood precisely what I meant."

- Steve Berry

At age 40, Michener published the first of his many epic historical fictions, Tales of the South Pacific. By comparison, F. Scott Fitzgerald published This Side of Paradise at age 24 and The Great Gatsby at 29; died at 44. William Shakespeare similarly began his great works while a much younger man. 

I'm not a writer, as re-reading of these simple posts plainly reveals, but like other commonplace people, I harbor inchoate dreams of accomplishment in various facets of life. It can be painful to wade through the days letting what little potential I have go untouched. James Michener serves as an inspiring reminder that one's potential can be unleashed at any point in life. 

It's Sunday, however, and all this talk of ambition is wearing me out. Nap time? Why not!