poem

 Op Note XXVAfter a while it starts to seem unreal. All this putting to sleep and prepping of flesh, this cutting and excising of tumors and organs. Some come in too late.  They die.  There ’s labor and delivery down the hall.  Replacements on the way.  But then you wander one night on the upper wards, alone.  Dead, dead, dead, soon to die.  You feel like you're someone else.  No, not someone, something else.  A different form of being.  Not like this patient or that.  Not like the GSW in bay 2.  The rigid belly in slot 14.  They all have medical record numbers.  Look them up.  Digital code to an entire life.  But you get detached.  It ’s only natural.  You just want to be good.  Empathetic but professionally distant. The wall begins here.  You don't even see it.  But then you get nightmares.  Getting chased.  Losing your soul. A voice trailing in your ear that could sound like a lover in either the throes of passion or death. One morning on rounds you realize you only really know you ’re human when you realize deeply for the first time the inevitability of your own demise.  Just as all the others.  If you didn't, who the hell are you?  And where did you come from? I can ’t imagine Christ’s surprise.  Waking up after three days in the ground, staring in astonishment at the paleness of his soft palms. Father, who am I now?6/15/22
Source: Buckeye Surgeon - Category: Surgery Authors: Source Type: blogs