I've been in a writing dry spell lately, not because life is hard, but because life is routine and typical and normal. Whenever my patients use that word "normal" (same in English and Spanish, coincidentally) to describe something, I coax/strongly encourage/require them to pick another adjective because I have no idea what normal-for-them is. In the same way, how can you be expected to know what normal-for-me is unless I tell you?
Normal for me right now means going to bed between 9pm and midnight, waking up between 5:45am and 7:45am, going running two or three times a week (explaining the 5:45am wake up time), clinic and call, babies and ER patients. It means mooching meals from my friends who are leaving soon, trying to have as much time with them as possible before our life paths diverge. It means setting my fridge to a cooler setting to maintain a food-safe temperature during the more frequent power outages. And it means reveling in the magical moment every time the sky opens and it starts to rain. The sound of raindrops on jungle canopy leaves never gets old.
This week I struggled with the normal and mundane in my largely outpatient primary care practice. We see a mixture of patients with appointments and walk-ins, kind of a cross between an office and urgent care. It feels like I see the same thing day in and day out and just when I'm starting to get cynical and bored, someone surprises me with their genuine appreciation for my time and advice, or their immediate determination to put my recommendations into practice, or their quick admission that all they wanted was a second opinion and they are relieved to hear what I have to say. Maybe my cynicism would be validated if I followed them home and overheard what they tell friends and family or watched to see how their life actually changed. No matter. The smile and hug of a thankful patient gives me the emotional energy to see the next patient in line. This normal involves a lot of reassuring patients that they don't need surgery or teaching them lifestyle changes to treat a problem, and ultimately that's not a bad normal to be living.
Normal for me right now means going to bed between 9pm and midnight, waking up between 5:45am and 7:45am, going running two or three times a week (explaining the 5:45am wake up time), clinic and call, babies and ER patients. It means mooching meals from my friends who are leaving soon, trying to have as much time with them as possible before our life paths diverge. It means setting my fridge to a cooler setting to maintain a food-safe temperature during the more frequent power outages. And it means reveling in the magical moment every time the sky opens and it starts to rain. The sound of raindrops on jungle canopy leaves never gets old.
This week I struggled with the normal and mundane in my largely outpatient primary care practice. We see a mixture of patients with appointments and walk-ins, kind of a cross between an office and urgent care. It feels like I see the same thing day in and day out and just when I'm starting to get cynical and bored, someone surprises me with their genuine appreciation for my time and advice, or their immediate determination to put my recommendations into practice, or their quick admission that all they wanted was a second opinion and they are relieved to hear what I have to say. Maybe my cynicism would be validated if I followed them home and overheard what they tell friends and family or watched to see how their life actually changed. No matter. The smile and hug of a thankful patient gives me the emotional energy to see the next patient in line. This normal involves a lot of reassuring patients that they don't need surgery or teaching them lifestyle changes to treat a problem, and ultimately that's not a bad normal to be living.
