Lost in the grind

Really feeling the pinch of corporate medicine.  Anyone else alarmed by the fact that, as physicians, it’s starting to feel like more “time on task” monitoring, more Medicare money hunting, and less regard for the need for deep work and thinking? You’re welcome for this hot take.

Happy Birthday, Dad. I miss you.

 Dad would’ve been 71 today. Still trying to get used to the void he left in the family. Wish he could have seen his grandson playing little league or, today, finishing third grade. What a year.  

RIP Dylan Dog

 In the dumpster-fire that is 2020, my life is feeling increasingly like a country song. My job has been nuts - I've been in practice a little over 4 years at a large, multi-speciality group practice and am straining under the weight of practicing during a pandemic. My dad is battling t-cell lymphoma after a failed stem cell transplant which we hoped would be curative. A dear friend is battling a significant health issue. And, about 48 hours ago, my beloved buddy concluded his 14-year journey with me and my family. 

His health had been declining and we were anticipating that he didn't have many months but he became acutely ill and, following the awful calculus employed when weighing invasive/extensive interventions versus added quantity or quality of life, we decided to let him go.  Thankfully, my son, wife, and I were able to say our goodbyes and I held him when he died.

The house is too quiet. He's not in the window watching me drive up or sitting with me on the couch.

I'm so sad.

And we're done...

I made it through residency; wrapped up in June.  I managed to negotiate a stiped that let me take a sabbatical over the summer prior to starting my new job.  Saw family, put my toes in the sand, grew a beard that was much more salt than pepper, and cleared my mind.  As of this writing, I'm one week into a new gig as a Family Medicine doc working 4days a week.  I'm anxious but excited about it; I'm ready to start feeling human again.

Bandit Bandit

During a brief reprieve from the pagers, I've managed to hide several pictures of 70s era Burt Reynolds in various places in resident call room: behind the dart board, on the back side of the sleep room doors, in the freezer, on the bulletin board among everyone's snapshots.  Here's the troubling thing that I've encountered, my co-residents (many of them in their 20s and very early 30s) inhabit a cultural landscape where, no shit, someone actually said "Oh yeah, he voiced one of the dogs in 'All Dogs Go to Heaven.'" I died a little on the inside. Absolutely no cultural reference for "Smokey and the Bandit" or "Cannonball Run." So, they will, no doubt, be wondering who in the hell put photos of a hirsute mustache-sporting lothario all around the call quarters.  Oh well.

Seeing the Light at the End of the Tunnel

Hopefully, it isn't a train.  Between parenthood and the demands of being a physician in the waning days of my residency, it's difficult at best to keep up with writing and impossible for me to post as frequently as I'd like.  In due time, however, I'll post regularly.

Still Nightfloating (5 shifts left)

The hellscape that is nightfloat is on the downslope.  I enjoyed a weekend at home with the family despite sleeping the sleep of the dead and being so thoroughly wiped out such that I couldn't make decisions or carry on a conversation or maintain linear thoughts.

It was a rare February weekend with some sunshine and mild temperatures.  Great to tease you with the promise of spring but saddening to know that March looms to yank the carrot from your grasp.  Still, hanging out at the park with kiddo, Dylan-dog, and Winning Run was pretty great.

On the drive in to the hospital today, the mountain loomed large in the afternoon sun.  Seeing this thing is one of my favorite things about being out here.  It always captivates me and makes me happy.

Hoh boy, 5 more shifts.