Wednesday, June 27, 2007


A keep-moving, no-sleep, two-declarations-of-death my-signature-on-the-death-certificates, multiple-family-meetings, this-is-great/I-totally-suck medical intensive care unit call night, in which I had some of my best and my most horrible times in my medical training so far. Post-call after a night like that--not like I've ever had a night quite like that one--I'm always emotionally raw.

Ms H and I have our call schedules off sync right now; she's on call in another MICU tonight. So I'm alone after a long nap; wandering through Harvard Square in the hot summer night, and now at home, everything seems beautiful or tragic or profound or all of the above. A pair of young guys singing bluegrass harmony in the square; a schmaltzy tribute to Paul Simon on TV; the Hemodynamic Cat stretching out on the bed. Pop songs make me cry. Time for bed. More soon.


arash said...

Hang in there my friend. I have been lucky to date but agree that the "critical" part of critical care amplifies the positive and the negative, both in our emotions and in our assessments of our own (limited but quickly expanding) capacity as physicians.

Ms. H said...

I'm here! I'm just on call! :(