My Moonlit Night

I experienced my first moonlighting shift as a somewhat "real physician" this weekend.

It will probably be my last for a long time. This is how it went: I did not have the opportunity to eat or pee for 12 straight hours. How is this different from resident wards, you ask? House staff, ER attendings, nurses, and other staff members called me "the night attending" and asked me what I thought they should do in certain patient cases. Me! I had ten admissions, turfed an additional three to the resident teams, and answered endless cross coverage pages on private patients. I came out alive and pondering whether or not I should purchase a green or pink iPod with my check.

I also got to make the call on which patients went to the resident teams and which stayed non-teaching. Well, it wasn't much of a call. My good friend happened to be the resident taking admissions that evening, and she quickly blocked all my potential teaching patients with phrases such as "But it just doesn't sound interesting. Mental status changes in an elderly nursing home resident with normal pressure hydrocephalus just doesn't do it for me." She took me out for breakfast after our shift.

Am I starting to feel the onset of power, perhaps? Likely not. My self-esteem may be much improved over the tiny quark it was in high school, but I still laugh at myself several times daily. Me. A doctor? Patients and staff say it all the time. My mother still can't get herself to call me doctor. I suspect medicine will always humble me.

Another humbling thing that happened during my moonlit weekend was this: the guy I was seeing "broke up" with me on email. Yes, email. We had only gone out on two dates and they were friendly dates, no bedrooms involved, yet he decided to compose a Dear John letter to me. On email. In the middle of a long moonlighting shift. On email. I sat there staring blankly at the computer when--

"Hey. I have two more patients you need to see," the ER attending tapped me on the shoulder and spoke with some urgency.

I looked back at her, unable to shake my blank stare.

"What?"

I explained to her what happened.

"That bastard. I'm so sorry. You want a yogurt?"

Nothing soothes a broken heart more than food. Or alcohol.

"Does it have scotch in it?"

"Uhh, no. But I have tangerines! Do you want a tangerine?"

I smiled and accepted a tangerine. She patted me on the back and put two charts in my lap. "Don't worry, hon. He'll come crawling back. They always do."

Fortunately for me, I have already been dumped earlier this year. Twice. By different men. With the right therapist, anti-depressant, and a great set of friends, one can get dumped several times over the course of a year and still preserve the ability to love oneself. I was able to pick myself up and move on, even though for a while there I was lying on the floor like Izzy in "Grey's Anatomy." I think being dumped fosters a sense of rejection in the dumpee. Even if it is a friendly parting of ways with the other and meant with the best intentions, I still feel like I wasn't good enough, pretty enough, smart enough, funny enough, sexy enough.

I looked away from my email inbox and looked at the charts waiting in my lap.

I put on my white coat and peeked behind the first curtain.

"Oh, doctor. I'm so glad you're here."

I had never been so grateful for feeling needed. Even though my dating life teeters on the edge of non-existence, at least I love my job.