They claim their labors are to build a heaven, yet their heaven is populated by horrors.
Perhaps the world is not made.
Perhaps nothing is made.
A clock without a craftsman.
It's too late.
Always has been, always will be.
Too late.
- Dr. Manhattan in “Watchmen.” 1/
Perhaps the world is not made.
Perhaps nothing is made.
A clock without a craftsman.
It's too late.
Always has been, always will be.
Too late.
- Dr. Manhattan in “Watchmen.” 1/
I am lying on my back, on the grass, waiting for the fireworks to begin.
It is the Fourth of July, in Boston, Massachusetts, early 2000s.
I’m a medical resident, and this is time I have stolen for myself. An attempted normalcy.
No pager. No stethoscope. No guilt. 2/
It is the Fourth of July, in Boston, Massachusetts, early 2000s.
I’m a medical resident, and this is time I have stolen for myself. An attempted normalcy.
No pager. No stethoscope. No guilt. 2/
The murmur of the crowds of people nearby, the distant music, all of these fade away as I look up at the flickering stars.
Beautiful.
My mind wanders. Something is troubling me.
The first fireworks erupt in dazzling red, white, and blue overhead.
A memory is resurrected. 3/
Beautiful.
My mind wanders. Something is troubling me.
The first fireworks erupt in dazzling red, white, and blue overhead.
A memory is resurrected. 3/
When I was a child, I had a beautiful watch. It was a birthday present, and a prized possession.
Brilliant colors, and a translucent backing, I could see every gear as it rhythmically clicked along.
I wanted to know how it worked.
I read about it, then disassembled it. 4/
Brilliant colors, and a translucent backing, I could see every gear as it rhythmically clicked along.
I wanted to know how it worked.
I read about it, then disassembled it. 4/
Mainspring. Hairspring. Bridge. Main plate. Escapement.
All these terms meant something, and I marveled at the brilliant precision in assembling a mechanism so tiny, so accurate, all contained within my wristwatch.
Only one problem.
I couldn’t put it back together. 5/
All these terms meant something, and I marveled at the brilliant precision in assembling a mechanism so tiny, so accurate, all contained within my wristwatch.
Only one problem.
I couldn’t put it back together. 5/
The fireworks in Boston are really thundering now. Powerful. Awe-inspiring. Patriotic. Glittering.
Each explosion sets off a vibration in my sternum, an impactful tremor tapping me on the chest and asking: are you paying attention?
Another cascading memory... 6/
Each explosion sets off a vibration in my sternum, an impactful tremor tapping me on the chest and asking: are you paying attention?
Another cascading memory... 6/
“Are you paying attention?”
The surgical resident is looking at me, and I realize with a guilty twinge that I’m not.
He sighs, and asks again. “Do you ever make mistakes, bad ones?”
I nod, wordlessly.
We are sitting in the ER together, two residents, covering a shift. 7/
The surgical resident is looking at me, and I realize with a guilty twinge that I’m not.
He sighs, and asks again. “Do you ever make mistakes, bad ones?”
I nod, wordlessly.
We are sitting in the ER together, two residents, covering a shift. 7/
The bond that is forged in the crucible that is the hospital, is a close one.
You begin to share anything, no matter how intimate. No matter how vulnerable it makes you.
The surgical resident is vulnerable now.
I sense he wants to talk, so I let the silence grow. 8/
You begin to share anything, no matter how intimate. No matter how vulnerable it makes you.
The surgical resident is vulnerable now.
I sense he wants to talk, so I let the silence grow. 8/
Finally he speaks.
He tells me about a mistake he was a part of. A patient for which surgery was urged. A surgery that went disastrously wrong.
I can see that he has been carrying this burden of guilt, and the weight is crushing him inward on himself.
His head is bowed. 9/
He tells me about a mistake he was a part of. A patient for which surgery was urged. A surgery that went disastrously wrong.
I can see that he has been carrying this burden of guilt, and the weight is crushing him inward on himself.
His head is bowed. 9/
I say that it’s okay. I remember that patient. By the time they reached us, it was already too late. There was nothing we could do.
He tried his best. Surgery was the only shot.
But the clock had stopped, springs unwound, gears ground to a halt.
It was too late. 10/
He tried his best. Surgery was the only shot.
But the clock had stopped, springs unwound, gears ground to a halt.
It was too late. 10/
The fireworks show brings me back to the now, and I’m able to smile as the crowd oohs and ahs.
Eventually, the last of the fireworks fade, and the smoke clears.
The stars are visible again, faintly.
Light traveling so far to reach my eyes, that time stands still. 11/
Eventually, the last of the fireworks fade, and the smoke clears.
The stars are visible again, faintly.
Light traveling so far to reach my eyes, that time stands still. 11/
Guilt is a powerful thing.
A burden that we wrap within ourselves in the fabric of denial, or shame, or grief, or whatever is bleeding and raw, and let it drag us inexorably down.
Many years from now, a wise man named Ben will teach me about acceptance.
For now, I’m lost. 12/
A burden that we wrap within ourselves in the fabric of denial, or shame, or grief, or whatever is bleeding and raw, and let it drag us inexorably down.
Many years from now, a wise man named Ben will teach me about acceptance.
For now, I’m lost. 12/
There are some who would look at the stars, and see every beautiful flickering light as heavenly inspiration.
And some who would see only the empty vastness of the Space in between.
An ode to the unique loneliness of the human experience. 13/
And some who would see only the empty vastness of the Space in between.
An ode to the unique loneliness of the human experience. 13/
The surgical resident and I eventually move on to other rotations.
Weeks later we pass each other in the hallway.
He seems happy.
I hope his guilt has lifted. Perhaps he’s better.
Perhaps nothing is made better, until we choose to see it, accept it, and then understand. 14/
Weeks later we pass each other in the hallway.
He seems happy.
I hope his guilt has lifted. Perhaps he’s better.
Perhaps nothing is made better, until we choose to see it, accept it, and then understand. 14/
I am sitting at a rooftop patio waiting for the fireworks to begin.
It’s the Fourth of July, in San Antonio, Texas, late 2010s.
I’m an attending physician, and this is time I have allowed myself, an attempted normalcy.
I look up to see the stars, and not the space in between.
It’s the Fourth of July, in San Antonio, Texas, late 2010s.
I’m an attending physician, and this is time I have allowed myself, an attempted normalcy.
I look up to see the stars, and not the space in between.
For those wondering about Ben and his lesson on acceptance:
