Twilight, Chickens, and a Return to Humanity: A Letter to the Interns
The room is dark and cool. The dog is still sleeping, now having inched himself into the warm spot I left in the bed. My husband, also unconscious, bears a facial expression suggesting mixed palsies of multiple cranial nerves. There is drool. From the bedroom I can smell the savory, salty chicken broth seeping into the pearled barley as it boils on the stove in my “charming, compact” [read: tiny] Manhattan kitchen. I walk to the kitchen and peer down into the deep, glinting aluminum of the pot to see the soup simmering below. The microwave clock shows 6:00 a.m., and the sun is just starting its morning commute.
Growing up, I could never understand why my mother would rise out of bed before the sun just to cook. I mean, come on—she would be awake, dressed, and productive before our backyard chickens even had a chance to start puttering around and clucking bloody murder. Who wakes up before the chickens?
Today, 1½ years into residency, I wake up before the chickens. Unlike the frantic days of intern year, when each morning would bring the promise of endless to-do lists and general bottom-of-the-totem-pole-ism, today I rise feeling rested and calm. Like my mother, I savor the morning twilight and delight in the ability to prepare something good for later. Reflecting on intern year, I delight in the ability to even think about later. Next to the stove, the coffee pot drips and clicks as it brews my drug of choice.
Taking a moment to think about the day to come, I envision the busy psychiatric emergency service. I recall my heightened (to put it lightly) anxiety the first few times I was assigned to patients with alcohol withdrawal, thinking only of the helpful medical school axiom that “alcohol withdrawal will kill your patients!” I am pleased that, with time and training, I no longer suffer a temporary arrhythmia when a patient comes in for alcohol detox; instead, I calmly formulate a taper schedule and engage the patient in motivational interviewing. My heart thanks me for the change. The coffee is ready.
I am grateful to care for people in their times of crisis and relieved to feel like I finally have some competence in doing so. While my doctoring skills are far from perfect, I no longer bear the intern’s cross of complete unfamiliarity and fear. I pour the coffee into my favorite tacky mug and continue to swirl my stovetop concoction. The barley becomes soft, gradually absorbing the flavors of the broth that surrounds it. And I—having absorbed over a year of knowledge and experience in my chosen field—I slowly exhale and smile.
To the interns: Your first year as a physician is challenging at best and grueling at worst. Have faith and keep your chins up. You too will return to humanity in time.
