There was a time once, when every day brought with it a glorious purpose.
When there was a genuine sense of fulfillment.
When grief was a transient thing, not lingering to carve out hollow people.
When hearts could heal, and learn to let go. 1/
When there was a genuine sense of fulfillment.
When grief was a transient thing, not lingering to carve out hollow people.
When hearts could heal, and learn to let go. 1/
My eyes open before my alarm goes off. Old habit.
Except there’s no alarm set today. I’ve taken some time off work- a whole two weeks.
It’s the most time I’ve taken off in over a decade.
I’m not sure what to do with myself.
I’m exhausted, but sleep won’t help. 2/
Except there’s no alarm set today. I’ve taken some time off work- a whole two weeks.
It’s the most time I’ve taken off in over a decade.
I’m not sure what to do with myself.
I’m exhausted, but sleep won’t help. 2/
My parents are going to be visiting from Houston.
I will myself out of bed and make the decision to get some groceries, so my fridge isn’t pathetically bare.
In the shower, I turn the water as hot as I can bear.
Trying to purge the lingering tension in my muscles. 3/
I will myself out of bed and make the decision to get some groceries, so my fridge isn’t pathetically bare.
In the shower, I turn the water as hot as I can bear.
Trying to purge the lingering tension in my muscles. 3/
Afterwards I throw on some clothes, a t-shirt and shorts.
I sit on the edge of the bed and tie my shoelaces on my sneakers.
Every step I take seems weirdly robotic.
Every decision seems painfully slow.
My mind isn’t clear. Cross-signal interference. Fragmented thoughts. 4/
I sit on the edge of the bed and tie my shoelaces on my sneakers.
Every step I take seems weirdly robotic.
Every decision seems painfully slow.
My mind isn’t clear. Cross-signal interference. Fragmented thoughts. 4/
I microwave some instant oatmeal and the beeping sounds like a dialyzer alarm. It jolts me out of my reverie for a moment, heart racing. Damn it.
I eat slowly, grasping the spoon and feeling each bite travel down my throat as I swallow.
It tastes like emptiness.
Like air. 5/
I eat slowly, grasping the spoon and feeling each bite travel down my throat as I swallow.
It tastes like emptiness.
Like air. 5/
I get in my car.
My stethoscope and ID badge are on the passenger seat. I don’t want to see them. I throw them on the back seat almost violently.
I’m getting calls from work, even though I’m off. Normally I’d answer, but today I let them go to voicemail.
I drive. Fast. 6/
My stethoscope and ID badge are on the passenger seat. I don’t want to see them. I throw them on the back seat almost violently.
I’m getting calls from work, even though I’m off. Normally I’d answer, but today I let them go to voicemail.
I drive. Fast. 6/
When I reach the grocery store I realize I have no idea what I’m here to buy.
I take a shopping cart, and decide to just walk.
Produce section. California grapes are in season.
In season.
Oh yeah. Seasons. Those things.
I’ve only known one season for two years now. 7/
I take a shopping cart, and decide to just walk.
Produce section. California grapes are in season.
In season.
Oh yeah. Seasons. Those things.
I’ve only known one season for two years now. 7/
I pick up a bag of grapes. One lone pomegranate. I contemplate some bananas but I know they’ll go bad.
I see a bag of peaches, and it resurrects an ICU memory.
“Yeah, she used to love going to Fredericksburg to buy fresh peaches, so dang sweet.”
Yeah she did… before. 8/
I see a bag of peaches, and it resurrects an ICU memory.
“Yeah, she used to love going to Fredericksburg to buy fresh peaches, so dang sweet.”
Yeah she did… before. 8/
As I wander aimlessly through the store I’m surprised at how vast it seems. I haven’t really explored one in a while, I guess.
There’s too many choices here.
The cereal aisle alone must have a hundred varieties. So many kinds of bottled water too.
So much of everything. 9/
There’s too many choices here.
The cereal aisle alone must have a hundred varieties. So many kinds of bottled water too.
So much of everything. 9/
I’m wearing my mask, but most people aren’t.
This used to bother me, but I don’t care anymore.
I take my shopping cart to the express check out. As I’m waiting in line, a woman behind me clears her throat.
I glance at her.
She gestures at my cart, “Fifteen items or less.” 10/
This used to bother me, but I don’t care anymore.
I take my shopping cart to the express check out. As I’m waiting in line, a woman behind me clears her throat.
I glance at her.
She gestures at my cart, “Fifteen items or less.” 10/
I look down at my cart. She’s right. I have eighteen items.
I look back at her. She isn’t smiling. Her head is tilted to one side as if to say, “Come on now, really?”
I take out a bag of pre-cut salad (“just add dressing!”), a frozen pizza, and the lone pomegranate. 11/
I look back at her. She isn’t smiling. Her head is tilted to one side as if to say, “Come on now, really?”
I take out a bag of pre-cut salad (“just add dressing!”), a frozen pizza, and the lone pomegranate. 11/
As I set the items aside I start noticing things about the woman. Old habit.
She seems older than I initially thought.
Stooped posture, kyphosis.
Significant lower extremity edema, venous stasis skin changes.
Resting hand tremor.
Unmasked.
I look away. 12/
She seems older than I initially thought.
Stooped posture, kyphosis.
Significant lower extremity edema, venous stasis skin changes.
Resting hand tremor.
Unmasked.
I look away. 12/
The cashier is a young woman, just a teenager. She picks up the three items I set aside.
“You want these? That pizza is real good.”
I smile, “OK.”
She adds them back, smiling, and rings me up.
As she does so, she says, “Have a nice day!”
She says it like she means it. 13/
“You want these? That pizza is real good.”
I smile, “OK.”
She adds them back, smiling, and rings me up.
As she does so, she says, “Have a nice day!”
She says it like she means it. 13/
I mumble my thanks.
I don’t know why, but something about the whole interaction is moving me deeply.
Unexpected kindness.
The warmth it instills within me is perhaps the first genuine thing I’ve felt all day.
For the first time since I woke up this morning, I am awake. 14/
I don’t know why, but something about the whole interaction is moving me deeply.
Unexpected kindness.
The warmth it instills within me is perhaps the first genuine thing I’ve felt all day.
For the first time since I woke up this morning, I am awake. 14/
I take my groceries home.
My parents arrive in the evening. Their love fills my home the way only it can.
They ask me about life, about work, about Twitter.
Yes, both my folks are on here. They know all of you.
“How’s Dr. Manning doing? Did you read her latest thread?” 15/
My parents arrive in the evening. Their love fills my home the way only it can.
They ask me about life, about work, about Twitter.
Yes, both my folks are on here. They know all of you.
“How’s Dr. Manning doing? Did you read her latest thread?” 15/
“Did you see Dr. Kucine’s earrings? Adorable!”
“We listened to #MedLasso the whole way!”
“Did you see Sarafina’s book?! Wow!”
“Carolyn Fahm says the nicest things!”
And so on.
They screenshot comments and tweets, and send them to me.
My biggest fans, and yours too. 16/
“We listened to #MedLasso the whole way!”
“Did you see Sarafina’s book?! Wow!”
“Carolyn Fahm says the nicest things!”
And so on.
They screenshot comments and tweets, and send them to me.
My biggest fans, and yours too. 16/
My tension slowly slips from me. An all-encompassing love heals me.
Still, my mind wanders.
I find myself wondering if the elderly woman at the grocery store was vaccinated. I hope she was. She seemed frail. Alone.
I’m not working today, but someone is. 17/
Still, my mind wanders.
I find myself wondering if the elderly woman at the grocery store was vaccinated. I hope she was. She seemed frail. Alone.
I’m not working today, but someone is. 17/
After dinner we all sit together in the living room. My dad watches sports, my mom plays WordScapes on her phone.
I click on my email and see a bunch of work-related stuff. Charts that will be delinquent if I don’t sign off.
With a sigh, I start signing off on my consults. 18/
I click on my email and see a bunch of work-related stuff. Charts that will be delinquent if I don’t sign off.
With a sigh, I start signing off on my consults. 18/
As I sign off on the charts I find myself remembering stories, revisiting them.
So many of these charts end in “time of death” notes.
We do not understand, we cannot even begin to comprehend, the scope of the tragedy that we have been through.
Still going through. 19/
So many of these charts end in “time of death” notes.
We do not understand, we cannot even begin to comprehend, the scope of the tragedy that we have been through.
Still going through. 19/
“Let it go.”
My mom says this to me as we say goodnight.
I know what she means. I nod, and muster a smile.
But as I lie in bed, I know that I can’t.
I can’t let it go. It’s woven into me, a dark strand forever in the fabric of my soul.
I drift into a dreamless sleep. 20/
My mom says this to me as we say goodnight.
I know what she means. I nod, and muster a smile.
But as I lie in bed, I know that I can’t.
I can’t let it go. It’s woven into me, a dark strand forever in the fabric of my soul.
I drift into a dreamless sleep. 20/
There was a time once, when every day brought with it a glorious purpose.
When there was a genuine sense of fulfillment.
When grief was a transient thing, not lingering to carve out hollow people.
When hearts could heal, and learn to let go.
Let me go
When there was a genuine sense of fulfillment.
When grief was a transient thing, not lingering to carve out hollow people.
When hearts could heal, and learn to let go.
Let me go
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