the art of letting go

twentyfour - the truth

the art of the truth

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First rule of being a medical professional: Do no harm.

The most prominent phrase that all doctors live by is also a walking hypocrisy.

Correction: Do no unnecessary harm. Medications have side effects, blood tests fucking hurt, surgeries pose a risk. A lot of medical interventions cause harm but the overarching question is: is the risk worth the potential benefits? Will the patient's quality of life be better after the intervention? Are you respecting their autonomy and doing everything possible to stop future harm from occurring?

A lot of doctoring borders on intention. Do you intend to help the patient? Will you strive to help maintain their mental and physical wellbeing to the best of your ability?

One thing that I learnt from Bioethics is that sometimes things have to hurt to get better. Sometimes, short term pain is necessary to avoid a lifetime of misery. Discomfort and scarring can lead the way to something great, something completely mind blowing. A baby could have a cardiothoracic surgery and go on to become the world's greatest scientist. A Mom could undergo the harsh side effects of Chemotherapy and spend another decade with her children. Interventions don't occur without promised benefits. Addressed pain is never permanent.

I try to remind myself of that when everything feels dark. It may hurt now but it won't forever. It had to hurt to get better. You don't grow when you're comfortable.

You don't grow when you're comfortable.

The fourth week after Nico left was the hardest. I didn't eat much and slept even less, resulting in this constant state of exhaustion that I couldn't quite overcome. I'd been back in College, overcome with lectures and assignments and labs. I thought the sense of normality would be good for me, offering a distraction that I so desperately needed, but everything that happened just seemed to blur together. The days stretched, dragging out until I could finally return home to the deafening silence and I was alone.

Alone.

All I could think about was Nico, the words he said, the look on his face. Over and over and over again.

I knew that I had to try and forget about him, despite knowing deep down that I couldn't. I'd tried before, all those years ago, but that yearning never seemed to cease. The plane rides from London to LA, and vice versa, silenced it back then, distracted me from thinking about what, and who, I left behind in New York. I didn't have that anymore. I didn't have Kareem and Saint's doting to distract me. I didn't have Sacha's stupid, loud voice to drown out my own thoughts.

It was just me now. Alone. Nico had crawled back into my life and situated himself in my mind, familiar and soft and home.

Through it all, through the arguments and the pain, through the darkness and the ever-raging storm above our heads, he'd made himself a home in my life and it was seemingly impossible to throw him out. Everywhere I went, it just reminded me of him. The apartment lobby; where we had our first conversation after I came back. He'd been in every single room in my apartment. We'd argued, and we'd talked, and we'd fucked. He was everywhere and I couldn't forget that. It physically hurt me to even try.

It was worse because I knew it was coming and I knew I deserved it. I pushed him away first and eventually so much that he couldn't handle it. I get it. I do.

But it doesn't mean it burns any less.

I woke up with a gasp, tangled in my sheets with my throat hurting, as if I'd been screaming in my sleep. Another nightmare decided to visit me tonight, one that I'd not been haunted by in years. Sweat stuck to my skin, suffocating me as it trickled down my body, webbing its way between my oversized shirt and skin, clutching them together. I glanced at my clock, sighing in relief when I realized that it was Saturday and I didn't have any lectures that I was late for.