It’s 7pm. I’ve hung around at work well past finishing because I have a dinner date nearby and I’ve just finished up in critical care. My friend whose on until 11pm and I are sitting at the nurses station talking about life and science fiction, future plans. In the background monitors are alarming, sounds I hear as I fall asleep at night now, ringing in my ears, reminding me that medicine never sleeps.
My friend is brilliant. So keen is he to become an ICU specialist, that he has taken responsibilities far beyond the rest of us, and been rewarded with skills and knowledge that far outstrip my own. He’s waxing lyrical about laterally thinking your way through a nosebleed in a bleeder (a sick patient prone to bleeding too much), I’m having one my regular crises of confidence, the uncomfortable result of being part of a specific minority in med school that all too slowly is disappearing Right in the middle of my crisis of future failures he lands it on me.
‘Make your worst performance the best on the day’. My fugue is broken – and he explains that as the result of being forced to do high-level music for his entire life (that he says is specific to his cultural heritage), he had to take nerve racking performance exams yearly. For his whole life. That he met with prospective failure, and sometimes the reality, so often that he learned this valuable lesson. His father explained that the more you practice, the more our bring up your own worst performance, that if on the day you choke, you drown in anxiety, that even if you give your worst performance, it will be the best performance for the day.
It was one of those moments in life where you feel your mind undergo a massive correction, that ‘aha! I understand what I need to do now!’ moment. Where self doubt evaporates and is replaced with motivation and interest. Your baggage can cloud a lot for you.
In the background, a new patient is wheeled in, intubated, an unfortunate survivor of a horrific accident. More alarms. One of the nurses asks another if they want Chinese takeaway for dinner. One of the seniors wanders past and reminds my friend that a new patient has arrived, does he want to put in some lines?
We say our goodbyes, I thank him, and as he walks away he says, ‘us good people have to stick together you know’.
I swell up with pride to be counted among his own.