I figure that, whatever God finally wants me to do, I’d better not let any doors close; so I will proceed as though I do want a surgery residency. I asked one of the residents what hospital and service would be a good place to do a JI (junior internship), and he said, if you want to be hard-core, be on the trauma team here. Which is good, because that’s what I already wanted to do. We discussed day vs. night shift. More trauma happens on the night shift, and more emergency surgeries. But, you learn more, and get more “face time” by rounding with the attendings during the day.

I asked the secretary of the department what I need to do to get on the trauma team in September, and he said, talk to the chairman. And incidentally, if you want to do surgery, you should have talked to him a long time ago. Thanks so much. So he gave the chairman’s personal secretary’s number, and I guess I will have to get psyched up, and make an appointment and talk to him next week. People have been giving me the impression that he likes to micromanage the applications of students who want to do surgery; but that would be ok with me, because I can use all the advice I can get.

So, Saturday, I somehow found myself arranging to come in early to round on our team’s patients, before the weekend call team is really required to be in. (This is how you know you’re head over heels in love with a specialty, when you get caught like this so easily.) The resident on call is the nice Southern guy, so we should have a good time. I’m thinking of hanging out in the ER if nothing else is happening; but with all the new interns underfoot tomorrow, I don’t know if they’ll want me around. But, and this is the great part, I noticed that there’s no student on for trauma tomorrow night. So I can do it myself, without stepping on anyone’s toes.

I act so excited when I talk about the trauma team, the other students are asking me if I want to be a trauma surgeon. . . I’m only this happy when nothing’s happening. As soon as anything bad goes down, I get all shivery, and feel very guilty for my excitement. Today I saw on the OR schedule that that teenage girl who had the bad car wreck was getting a trach. It makes me so upset to think of her, with her long brown hair, and her neatly painted toe-nails, on the stretcher in the trauma bay; and now she’s not comatose, but not talking, or opening her eyes; and if they’re traching her, she must be doing even worse than I last heard.