Writetober 2019

October 20-Tread

This is another heavy one, and it's purposely left unresolved. Those that work in healthcare, be they doctors, nurses, veterinarians, or vet techs/assistants, all deal with burnout and compassion fatigue at some point, to some degree. It sucks, and it sucks the soul out of you if it goes on long enough. And while this country's system is horrific to patients, it is just as bad to those on the other side of the script. Everyone fights their own battle...

He felt like he'd been treading water for ages, and any time he faltered he got a mouthful of brine. He coughed and struggled to regain his rhythm, but he could only hold out so long.

He was drowning on dry land while throwing others life preservers. He had a job to do, and he couldn't let his personal life get in the way of that. When he put on his scrubs and scrubbed in, that drowning man stayed on the other side of the door. Every outside struggle ceased to exist for a short time. This person on the operating table—this person he could help.

The voice in his head mocked him for not being able to help himself.

While he was helping others, he could forget—usually. There were times when he was caught unawares. Someone's mother had fallen, and while he could fix her broken hip, he couldn't stop the bleeding in her brain. Or a man had his tumor successfully removed only to return a few months later with an inoperable osteosarcoma. The ones who were too far gone before they ever arrived and died on the table, leaving him elbow-deep in their blood and struggling for words to tell their family. The woman who miscarried, the man who tried to kill himself, the child who got ahold of a gun. The dog attack that left too little skin behind to work with and having to tell the victim how bad the scars would be. Calling the police to report suspected domestic abuse.

Some days the hospital was a refuge, and some days it was another layer of hell.

Then there was the exhaustion when he finally left, soul-deep and numbing. Home was a refuge and a hell unto itself. The silence stretched wide like a wound and questioned his every choice, questioned whether humanity deserved saving, questioned whether he deserved to be one of the ones trying to save it.

Having a dog helped. If nothing else she forced him to go through the motions on days he'd have otherwise wasted away in bed. She reminded him that someone loved him and was glad for his existence if she tended to almost knock him over when he got home. She was a living reminder that he had done one thing right, even if his family and the empty side of his bed insisted he was a failure.