I may have been wrong
I never understood Kafka's blather about the crucial skill of sitting tranquilly in ones' room amid books and papers. I need to be busy, obsessed, absorbed . I have experienced rich reward in work. Much of what I do has no parallel in the real world of Salaryman.
I've known many of my patients for decades. We have grown old together, developed diabetes and cancer , my patients and I . Part of the miracle of my job is that my patients understand I am frail and mortal just like them, We are flawed, but we have each other.
My support group has protected me from the war roiling around us at work Docs are leaving the group, and I cant blame them. We work long hours and we are understaffed. If we cat work on a Saturday we must arrange our own coverage. I suspect the administration's response to revenue shortfalls is to make us work harder, for longer hours . Reminds me of the joke
The beatings Will Continue Until Morale improves
Why don't I leave? A cynic would point out the administration's has me by the shorts. The docs who regard their patients as family will never leave. The docs who view their job as an upper middle-class-carrer that could earn big bucks if one gave Botox in the backroom will eventually leave, anyway.
I remember when I returned to work my mantra was "I'd do this for free" And I would. And, on some level, I do, I am one phone call away from telling Solvy at Prudential the grand experiment of my retuning to work did not work out. I ca watch and re watch The Wire three times, I can re-watch Arrested Development , pretend to finish A team of Rivals" again which should bring us to 2019.
Which brings us to today's blog. Pain. Pain. Pain. So much pain. Comical, out sized, sarcastic. Pain to make the tears flow freely while I examine a patient and ask about an ill conceived ta too. Its creepy.
I can't work like this. the GVHD is back, a blind dentist flaying around in the mouth leaving wreckage in its place.
Dilemma. Can't work in pain, Cant work with narcotics coursing in one's veins. That sort of behavior ends on the first page of the Hartford Courant pic of me with my white coat over my head, reporters asking , in my estimation, how many died because I was taking medication. Dreamt last night I never went to med school, I decided to be a lawyer ( or an Indian chief, the dream was unclear. Who wears the bird feather headdress? ) I feel real fear in the dream content, I may never work again. The impaired physician is a cliche, a pathetic caricature. Me.
Shit shit shit. This is the sort of blog I never want to write, yet often seem to do so. The blog contains all the earmarks of post modern literature, the inside jokes, pointless, self-serving, self pity
Funny story: I'm at the pharmacy today picking up my meds. All my scripts are stamped DANA FARBER HEMATOLOGICAL Malignancies Department. Its a free pass. No one 's gonna question my need for drugs since I have the big C. I feel as if I could buy a copy of JUGGS magazine without a hint of embarrassment "He's buying a titty magazine? Let him. he has cancer. poor guy, I hope the distraction helps"
I do a horrible thing: I open the pills in the parking lot, junkie style.
Yikes. I should have 20 tablets of Ichor, I have 16. Furious dazed, aching. Some lab tech is having his own private party in some stairwell celebrating with my little white rounds of tranquility and peace.
I am not able to count to twenty, let alone remember the 8 diagnostic features of polycythemia vera . I storm into the pharmacy "You shorted me!" I howl in righteous indignation, The other customers swivel to get a better look, some guy is going berserk.
Not the pharmacy's fault.
For some reason, they distributed the pills in various bottles. Why? More to the point, I'm now that creepy guy, the guy you stare and and then slowly edge away from, the stoned geezer who pays cash for his narcotics to avoid the DEA. After I apologize profusely, the pharmacist asks, "Is it the heat?" implying the major side effect of sun exposure is a sense of being under dosed.
I return home .I can stop wandering the house scaring the cats and kids, mumbling "why doesn't god kill me now?" This must be a key phrase one learns at marriage counseling to avoid I suspect "God Kill me now" is up there with "I'm sleeping with your sister" as what they call red-button expressions that have no place in life but enhance every Coen brother movie .
I am not blind to the irony of all this. Most 55 year olders are frolicking with grandchildren, wintering in Boca and reading John Grisholm's word. But I cant stop working Who is going to tell Ms Z that her cancer is back but to do it with such affection and concern she honestly thanks me for the news.
I flash on Bonnie Franklin, One day at a time who died of pancreatic cancer last year
So while you’re here enjoy the view
Keep on doing what you do
So hold on tight we’ll muddle through
One day at a time, One day at a time.
Feh, less significance than I remember Nonetheless, The enemy is the doubt, The not knowing. I called the office , not coming tomorrow. Maybe not Friday. Have to be off the pain meds. This is obvious , too. There appears to be no answer. Except to get better. More doubt.
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