Sometimes human

There was a lot of traffic today.

Driving home in the middle of rush hour, isolated in the mechanical barrier that us Angelinos prefer to the stench, hustle and bustle of shared air and space (ie public transportation), my frantic speeding of thoughts slowed to the idle crawl of the cars around me. Losing interest in the repetitive pop tunes on the radio I turned to my phone to check the traffic, and then from there started calling family members I had long since talked to.

It began with my sister-in-law. We talked about their kid and how she was starting to show a preference to my brother, crying to be held by him and played with when he was around, but busily looking for toys and other things to amuse herself when she was in the room. My dad was on a service call so he didn't have his usual enthusiasm in his voice, and to be frank, just inexplicably sounded tired. He's turning 60 in a couple of weeks... reminding us both that he was getting old. My mother was her usual bubbly enthusiastic fountain of encouragement, proud of her doctor son, apologizing that she couldn't do anything to help despite knowing how hard and tiring residency must be. Then later that day dinner with some friends I hadn't seen in some time. Burgers, drinks, nostalgic bickering and teasing. Too many reminders of the life that is on hold this year.

There are always moments when physicians, in my opinion surgeons especially, have to stop being human. Stop feeling, stop needing, stop wanting. Put aside Maslow's hierarchy of needs to finish that 10 hour surgery, take call again for the 3rd time in one week, push the envelope and admit that 8th patient that night because they need medical attention just as much as the first. Illness recognizes not the fatigue of the physician, but will capitalize on it when sleep deprivation causes laziness, sloppiness, or inattentiveness. To err is human, they say. But in our profession to err is murder. So we're asked to be more than human, isolating hunger, fatigue, and emotions, burying them until we scrub out of the OR or leave the hospital. But then we see our friends, hear the voices of our loved ones, and are reminded that we're still human too.