Saturday morning. I’ve been ineffectively dealing with an unusually prolonged fit of PMS that has extended for a bit more than 2 weeks now, which is enough reason for me to speculate that perhaps this is the beginning of a malignant, chronic, and pathological depression. At 5 in the morning, I was already up and about, trying to stuff vital Cardiology information into my tired, resisting head. Everything was in vain. My intellectual queasiness has turned into a full-blown academic hyperemesis. I simply can’t tolerate anything that has something to do with medicine. This doctor who used to call Medicine her one great love is having a bad case of the I-don’t-want-to-be-a-doctor-anymore bug. This is an emergency.
After 2 hours of wrestling with my anti-medicine instincts, I gave up. I pulled out a non-academic book from my pile of unread paperbacks and tried to savor every non-medical word. I brought out my iPod, switched it on to my Everything But the Girl playlist and tried to enjoy the great music. Nothing. No joy at all. Not even a hint of interest or a slight upsurge in my monotonous or even downsloping happiness scale.
Something is missing. I need a remedy to this slump, before everything around which my life revolves totally collapses. Medicine is my life, the only attempt and experience with commitment that Fate has ever allowed me to have. Medicine is the man I married. He was the bandit that snatched me away from ordinary life, the craft I chose to spend the rest of my life knowing and perfecting. But now he is slowly slipping away. No, divorce is not an option. Perhaps with time, the fire will come back. Perhaps with time, I will remember why I fell in love with it in the first place.
But for the moment, I'm raising a Code Blue. I need some defibrillation stat!