Sigh. I’m not sure how to put here what I want to. But I’m sitting on something that feels heavy. I think part of the problem is that I expect this “art piece” to come out well formed to serve a purpose, when the purpose is simply to transmit honestly the experience as a process.

So last night I went to this event, sponsored by my hospital, that was a “Story Share” for physicians associated with residency programs in my metro area. It was at a brewery and it was kind of a swanky thing with hors d’oeuvres and craft beer, and I think it served its purpose well. They were at capacity and they had 20 readers. Self-care prizes included massage vouchers, coffee coupons, and a pre-paid cleaning service. We all do need a little help and those are sweet and thoughtful gifts. I didn’t read. I had thought about participating, but honestly it is a lot to share in general, and then the specific context of sharing with medical peers really changes things. I have a strong feeling towards speaking something truthful. And art has a purpose. In my case, I feel like my words speak in antagonism to the status quo, and so they generate discomfort for those invested in the system as it is. Which in this case, were the hosts of the event.

And I did speak with the Director of Academic Affairs (Dr. Rowan) from our hospital, who was involved in putting the event on. She knew, on some level, that I had something to say. She asked why I didn’t read. Well, I came to listen, I replied. But really I thought about it and it felt like too much to integrate my artistic purpose and my goal of completing residency. I don’t think that would have made any sense to her. But I do feel this kind of Venn diagram of my life. There is this physician role, which consumes my life, and that circle seems to be pulling away for the other. The artistic self. They can overlap more perhaps? I like to sit at the piano and sing with my guitar, but those activities get stripped thin when my energy is gone.

Some of the readings last night were heavy. An anxiety attack after day 2 on the MICU with some serious morbidity hovering around a completely fragile and humbling experience as a new doc. Dealing with a medical diagnosis of major depression as a medical student and how the time demands and the sleep sacrifice created bigger problems. One reader had collected vignettes of suicidal ideation from medical trainees at her institution where there had been 4 (FOUR!) suicides in her time as a student. 2 faculty members spoke, and their stories were personal, describing the damage they have taken on through their participation in this system. And now they have settled into positions that work for them it seems. But they were airing their grievances last night.

On one hand, what the fuck? I mean, I feel relatively “in the scoop” as far as physician depression/burnout/suicide go. But then, here we all are talking about it, and what does it amount to? This is a blow-off valve. Back to work we all go. We don’t know how to fix it. We don’t know how to address the systemic level problem that has made this profession so miserable. We do our jobs and we complain. Take the good and the bad. That’s where we are.

Perhaps my art can be more visionary. I could’ve read something about my plans. About my dreams. We need some dreams ya’ll. Signing a contract to eventually get out of debt ain’t it!