At a Veterans’ Day event a few years ago, a soldier explained that she was from a military family with three generations of service. She herself joined the army and served as a medic, training as a physician’s assistant. Her two brothers served in the army and marines; she had cousins that served in other branches. Hers was a family dedicated to military service. At home one holiday, her nephew told her that that he was interested in joining the army when he graduates from high school; he also wanted a medical career and told her that he knew she had sacrificed holidays and family gatherings for her training and work as a physician assistant in the army. Her service as a veteran was different from his father in the army, but he honored her sacrifice.
In that moment, it struck me the sacrifice that I had made to train as a doctor. Spending every fourth night in the hospital on call for most months over the four years, studying and sleeping, there was not time for much else. I suddenly remembered a phone call from my parents during an overnight rotation on the pediatric ward. I had changed into green scrubs for the evening, others had given me their sign out, and I was organizing myself for the work ahead. My dad’s voice said: “We’re at the party. Say hi to your cousin.” He is a man of few words. I heard the dance music in the background, and it took me a moment to remember. My cousin’s daughter was having a huge bash for her Sweet Sixteen party; most of the extended family was there; it was a reunion.
“Hi,” I said after a pause, “Sorry to miss the party. Tell her Happy Sweet Sixteen.”
My cousin’s familiar voice struck me with surprise: “I didn’t know you turn doctor.” I smiled at the Jamaican “turn” of the phrase. On my end, I didn’t know it was a secret, but apparently he missed the fact that I had graduated from medical school and was now well into my first year of residency. I figured my parents would have told him. I had missed most of the annual summer family reunions because of school or work over the past few years. I searched my memory and couldn’t remember the last time that I saw him.
While listening to the Veterans’ Day talk about sacrifice, I realized that I had discounted my own sacrifice. Residency was a grueling four years–physically, mentally, and emotionally draining. When I was not busy caring for patients on the hospital wards or learning from the more senior residents and attendings, I was studying to learn about my patients’ diseases so that I could pass the board exams. In those years, I did not have energy for anything else. A career in medicine is a sacrifice, and it can take even your soul. The emotional fatigue matched the physical exhaustion; I learned to pause my emotions when I needed my mind to focus on the life-or-death scenarios. I would deal with that later.
I’ve not really unpacked those years of memories. They feel like one giant blob of exhaustion; a traumatic explosion sealed and self-contained by HIPAA privacy laws. I’ve tucked the threads away, but even if I found them, I’m afraid to pull.
As a storyteller that performs stories, I would like to craft some stories from this trove of memories. When I look for them, I hit a wall. The childhood memories are easier today to manage. To unpack a memory and change the story with the wisdom that decades bring is a form of healing.
I recently performed one of my childhood stories near Miami where I attended residency. During intermission, two faces came up to me and said, “Do you remember us?” I did, but from where? “We were in residency together,” they said. My mind flashed back to their faces from over two decades ago.
As I looked at those faces, I just felt warmth and familiarity. And I realized that something else was happening here. Underneath those memories of exhaustion, stress, and trauma, we were veterans suffering and supporting each other. The bond of sisterhood and brotherhood had formed; we were family. During those years, we nurtured and cared for each other; we worked closely together and covered nights so that others could attend weddings and family graduations, care for sick family, rest and return. Others did this for us.
Only those familiar faces can help me unpack those memories that I’ve been unconsciously avoiding. But in the moment that I saw their faces, I felt the joy of belonging to my medicine family of those resident years. There is joy to unpack as well. I did not remember the joy until now. Sacrifice is pain… and joy?