A weekend of night shifts hammered me into the ground like a cheap peg, leaving me last night grumpy and brittle.
Digitalkate and I went to the cinema because I couldn’t bear to sit and think and en route I decompressed, pouring out images and thoughts from my new Worst Job Ever.
I told her about listening to a relative screaming.
Over and over.
The problem with your worst job ever, is that as you gain experience and exposure, the things that would rattle a non-medic diminish in one direction down the scale.
In direct proportion, the things that get through the armour, the things that have you snapping at your housemates and tearing up in traffic?
Those things are, by their nature, exponentially horrific. If they’re awful enough to affect front line workers, they are of a scale of awfulness that many people, thankfully, never have to face.
They’re stories that I’d normally write, but in the face of increased public awareness of clinician’s privacy responsibilities, I won’t be writing about any more patients.
For those of you who have asked, this is the same reason my archives are private.
My registration is too precious to risk.
Instead I’m sitting at my desk and writing about my morning.
How I got up later than I planned
How I’ve a Sign Language exam tonight that everyone tells me I’ll breeze.
How I’m not so sure.
How I’ve procrastinated from what I need to be doing, but in doing so I think I’ve figured out why our dishwasher is broken.
How I’m going to have to focus on some overdue paperwork this afternoon.
This will be Trauma Queen from now on.
I suspect many of you dear, sweet people won’t mind in the slightest – you’ve told me enough in the past that you’re happy to read whatever I have to say.
That’s a nice thought and one that I’ll hang on to, I’m just not convinced that I’d want to read it…though I guess I don’t have to, right?