Writing
What the work does to you, what it asks of you, and the small human things that get deleted somewhere around hour seventy.
An essay on the voice that says you got here by mistake. The Egyptians feared their own heart would testify against them at the final judgment, so they laid a charm over it asking it to stay honest. Most residents could use one.
An autobiography, told through the oldest story about strength. Hercules was born strong, but strength was never what made him a hero — the labors were, and the service they were for. A life measured the same way.
An essay on the solitude no one warns you about. The gods sentenced Sisyphus to roll his stone up the mountain alone, forever, and called it the cruelest thing they could imagine. I think they were describing residency.
A ureteric stent at the bedside — no fluoroscopy, done solo, and watched the whole way in. On taking an old operation apart and rebuilding it for a new room, and the seniors who hand you the reason instead of just the steps.
An essay on training, told in the shape of a circle. The serpent that eats its own tail is four thousand years old. I think it was always a drawing of residency.
Most surgical teaching comes down from the summit. This is an attempt to teach from halfway up — while the rock is still cold and the next move is still unclear.
Resilience or respite — we are usually asked to pick one. After five straight days of solo call, I think that is the wrong question.