getting to grit
Recently, after 3 years of being "divorced," my parents finally divorced.
In the same week, I found myself in a Panera surrounded by a large group of youth protesting the Antwon Rose verdict. "Three shots in the back, how you justify that!" they shouted, faces contorted, as goosebumps crept down my spine.
Two of my closest friends suddenly ended their almost 4 year relationship, resulting in several intense late night soul-searching conversations, and the beginning of a new and incredible friendship I never saw coming.
Then, my patient died yesterday. I watched his heart flatline on the monitor despite days of lingering hope he would turn the corner. "Time of death, 4:18pm," I said, picked up the phone to call his daughter. "Your father died, Sara.*" (We are taught to be direct, not to use words like "passed" in case we confuse the family.) "He was peaceful and did not suffer," I said followed by a long pause. Space to grieve. After only 3 years of residency, the words flowed from me with calm and measured compassion as my heart shut itself off from the suffocating pain I knew just hit Sara.
I went home and watched my husband furiously stalk the ED board on his computer. Yet another trauma coming in - yet another sleepless night in the hospital for him.
I started reading When Breath Becomes Air by Paul Kalanithi again.
As I approach my thirties, I've become more acutely aware than ever of what a privileged life I lead. Life has only become increasingly more complex for myself and everyone around me. There are these crazy weeks I feel so devastated and so blessed at the same time. I feel thankful for the people in my life who ground me, and for my covered garage parking. I know that whatever happens, grit is the rickety bridge I have to stay on.
*Names changed/protected
In the same week, I found myself in a Panera surrounded by a large group of youth protesting the Antwon Rose verdict. "Three shots in the back, how you justify that!" they shouted, faces contorted, as goosebumps crept down my spine.
Two of my closest friends suddenly ended their almost 4 year relationship, resulting in several intense late night soul-searching conversations, and the beginning of a new and incredible friendship I never saw coming.
Then, my patient died yesterday. I watched his heart flatline on the monitor despite days of lingering hope he would turn the corner. "Time of death, 4:18pm," I said, picked up the phone to call his daughter. "Your father died, Sara.*" (We are taught to be direct, not to use words like "passed" in case we confuse the family.) "He was peaceful and did not suffer," I said followed by a long pause. Space to grieve. After only 3 years of residency, the words flowed from me with calm and measured compassion as my heart shut itself off from the suffocating pain I knew just hit Sara.
I went home and watched my husband furiously stalk the ED board on his computer. Yet another trauma coming in - yet another sleepless night in the hospital for him.
I started reading When Breath Becomes Air by Paul Kalanithi again.
As I approach my thirties, I've become more acutely aware than ever of what a privileged life I lead. Life has only become increasingly more complex for myself and everyone around me. There are these crazy weeks I feel so devastated and so blessed at the same time. I feel thankful for the people in my life who ground me, and for my covered garage parking. I know that whatever happens, grit is the rickety bridge I have to stay on.
*Names changed/protected
"Mom"- Jordan Casteel
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