Rest and Regroup

I’m sitting at our desk in our study with the wooden slats of the blinds angled just enough to let in the light. Outside is blue sky. I can see a fantail bobbing up and down among the sun-warmed leaves of a fern tree. This is September.

The past month has gone fast. Barely three days after my last update Auckland went back into lockdown after new cases emerged in the community. The news broke midweek, an evening when we were out for dinner in the city with K’s sister, here on a brief visit. The atmosphere changes in an instant, laughter and bustle and the clanging of cutlery giving way to urgent low whispers and the scraping sound of chairs across the floor. Smart phones glow darkly at everyone’s table. We glance down at our own, opening up our hospital group chats, new messages keep coming.

We had hoped to go to Wellington the following weekend. We’d planned a roadtrip, leaving early to escape the morning traffic, stopping for breakfast at a small cafe just out of town. Each morning on the way to work we’d counted the number of days still to go: there were only three left. I was already queuing a playlist for the drive. For a few days my spirits are low, I feel drained, deplete. The workflow changes again as we re-group, brace ourselves for more. Gradually everyone re-calibrates.

In the event, we stay home. On the days when the sun shines we go out on walks, when it storms I cook soup and listen to podcasts, we spend our evening watching films. Why do you want to watch The Birds?! K laughs. He knows I can’t handle horror. But this is a beautiful kind – and besides, I never watched it to the end. I finally manage to call one of my sisters. That film was terrifying, she remembers, also laughing. We examine our shared memory: a VHS that our mum had picked up at a boot-sale, was it dubbed in French? Uncertain. But we agree that we never saw the end, someone had recorded over it. We remember being huddled on the settee, small children screaming shrilly at the absolute terror of it. Good times.

On other days, I try to schedule catch ups with friends. Talking is a joy, but sometimes inflames a desperate loneliness. To distract myself I finally face up to things that have been sitting on my to-do list for months. K meanwhile organises for someone to come and remove heaps of dead wood from our yard. We want to start a garden, we have wanted it for so long, but right now the thought of it is somehow overwhelming. Perhaps it’s just exhaustion. We notice how the extra sleep and rest is softening us, a deep and loving tenderness sets in. We speak tentatively about plans for the future, the kind that give you goosebumps and you’re not sure if it’s out of thrill or fear.

Back at work, exams are re-scheduled in a modified (modular, online) format, preparation has to start again for real. Part of me is still resistant, resentful of the delays which mean another summer given over to work, to putting in long hours after the workday is over, at the weekend, when others are outdoors in the sun. This exam should have been over three months ago. Part of me is terrified at what the preparation process involves: the embarrassment of performing poorly in front of seniors you respect, the shame of falling short of expected standards, the pressure of juggling it all with all the usual responsibilities and stresses of work. It is daunting and grueling. But part of me also is excited. The enormity of the task that lies ahead is palpable, but with every practice I do I can feel myself improving, making connections, getting faster, getting sharper. And I have longed to be at this level for so long, I have wanted it so desperately. There have been so many days where I’ve come back from work and felt so restless with the weight of this desire, throbbing in my chest, so many times I’ve said to K: I just want to be good. Of course there is no ‘just’ about it.

This is a practical exam, not a written paper, at some level it feels a little like a game. This aspect reminds me of being at secondary school again, how intuitive and play-like learning was back then. The first time I present a case I sense there is something here I have potential to be good at. It is exciting, it re-awakens a competitive thrill I haven’t felt since those days at school, a thirst to succeed. I throw myself into it, begging colleagues to point me in the direction of interesting cases, stealing time in lunch hours to go talk to patients. I ask for feedback from those I trust. There is a real vulnerability to this: you are so keenly aware of taking up their time, a little terrified of ruining their opinion of you, silently praying: teach me how to get better, please don’t break me. The desire to get better is just enough to outweigh my natural shyness. Ultimately this should be the last exam of my career, the one that will tie everything together. The difference in competence between those who have done it and those who have not is striking. Everyone I have worked with agrees: however good you get in the run up, that is as good as you’ll ever be.

Wish me luck -! Zx