Every night I drive 40 miles home from work. The desert passes me by, rolling hills growing dark with shadow, splashes of sage and manzanita showing as little bits of green against the rust and gold. The moon comes on slowly, making its debut, and I try to let the day dissipate.
Some days it is easy. I hop into the car and my cases, my patients, are instantly gone. I know they are all right. At least, I know it as certainly as we can know anything from one day to the next. On those days, I drive home and work is nowhere on my mind. My patients are safe and sound; there is only desert and the cars before me, and eventually the long crest and descent into the city.
Other nights it is difficult. The case I am missing a puzzle piece for. The dog with the wound that is looking worse, not better. The nebulopathy – what if I miss something rare? The uncertainty. Could I have been better? Smarter? Clearer? Should I have done x or y or z? Why am I such a slow surgeon? Why aren’t I more capable? Why did I make this mistake? How come she’s not getting better? What if she gets worse? What if he dies?
And those nights I do not see the desert pass me by, and realize that I am already crowning the crest of the hill into the city, and still my patients ride with me.
Sometimes I make it home and husband-home-cat-distractions pull me free. Sometimes I need to curl up in the bathtub with lavender in the air and my arms around myself and tell myself tomorrow will be better. Sometimes it doesn’t work and instead I lie there in the dark, my patients lying there with me, curled at the foot of my bed with my guilt, my worry, my fears.
And I hope to make it intact to tomorrow, where I’ll be better. Smarter. Cleverer. Clearer.
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