Thursday, January 3, 2013
a game of waiting
"Therefore send not to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee."
It's an odd feeling, that moment when you know with certainty that hope is gone and we are left searching for something, anything to cling to. Comfort? Although we are taught of its importance, in this moment it seems so inadequate a goal compared with life. As humans, I think we all naturally hold onto hope. We hope against hope. We hold onto it till whatever end. We hold onto hope against science and judgement and logic and reason. But even with this nature, there come moments when hope is lost.
And when hope is lost, I can't help but feel small. I spend a lot of my life feeling like I can make a difference. In a twisted way, I feel that I am the anomaly, special, but not necessarily in a good way, but in a way that will ultimately be to my advantage.
So what if I'm eating disordered. So what if I'm not smart. So what if I'm a lazy ass who listens to old school rock and drinks old school drinks. So what if I cry at children's movies and am horrendously simple. So what. In an odd way, it's endearing to the professor, and in my head, one day he will pick me up, lift me up and then I will be riding a spiral of success to the top where I shall perch, clad in Chanel and Proenza Schouler and Burberry Prorsum and Carven, loved, lusted after, feared and admired. And remembered when I'm gone.
If I am honest, that is how I've always believed life will be. But then, in these moments when hope is gone, I feel small, insignificant, a tiny, undetectable blip in space and time.
This is not the first time I've known that a patient was dying. Indeed, I've probably seen more than my fair share of deaths in my short training. But when she is mine, my patient, it feels so different. I wish with all my heart that I could somehow crawl into her body, beat out the infection and make everything okay.
But I can't. And everything will not be okay. Soon a son will lose a mother, a brother will lose a sister, a father will lose a daughter. For them, nothing will be okay. And I will lose a name off my morning list.
For many, death will be an angel of mercy for the husk of a woman attached to a respirator and that is something that is very easy to say (it's something that I would've said) for someone who doesn't who have to face those eyes filled with fear each day.
It's hard. I'm so over this job. I wish I could somehow get over it, get over the stress and the heartbreak and the fear and the exhaustion. But for now, I can only take it one hour at a time.
Logic in me says I should go talk to the professor about this, at the next possible opportunity. Ask to see him by himself, have a little cry on his shoulder, listen to one of his stories that always makes me feel better, and then eventually recover. If the past is any predictor of the future, chances are, the exact same thing would have happened to him and he will tell me of how he got past it.
Logic. But the devil in my head says no. I can't see him. Not when I'm this fat. A twisted part of me needs to hear him tell me that I'm skinny. So I shall suffer and cry in silence in the dark of the night. I shall mourn her on my own. But she's not dead yet. I'm just bracing myself for impact.
In its own special way, once again, my ED has creeped into an area of life that I had thought was untainted by it. I wish it would leave me to have this moment to myself. One moment away from feeling fat, one moment away from calories and restricting. Not even the grim reaper can keep it away.