I don’t think I’ve said this lately: I’m completely thrilled to be where I am, doing what I’m doing.  I spent four years literally dreaming about being a doctor, a resident, and the last two years with a fairly good idea of what that meant, and still wanting it.

And now, by God’s grace, here I am, and nobody’s said, Whoops, it was a mistake, yet.

I’m a doctor, I’m learning surgery, I get to take care of people, I’m learning how to do important things. I am so privileged. It’s really too good to be true. One of the last nights of October I was staring out the window at the beautiful panorama of the city by night, just about pinching myself to be sure this was all real. That was, of course, right before five codes broke out at once.

Don’t tell anyone, but being an intern isn’t that bad. Once you adjust to exactly when you’re supposed to ask permission before doing what, it’s a well-defined role and quite doable. Here at least, no one is abusing us unbearably. The attendings are still fairly oblivious to our existence, which is really the safest way to have things; it’s the senior residents and chiefs that they focus their questioning on. The other residents recognize us, and are beginning to treat us like team members. None of the nurses is really out to get the interns; they take orders from us, and most of them have a very smooth technique for insinuating suggestions when needed.

Actually, I’d far rather be an intern than a second year resident. Now, it’s still permissible to ask stupid questions, and to defer difficult decisions to others. The nurses are frustrated but not surprised when we say we have to ask before deciding on something. But next year – next year we’re supposed to know what we’re doing, and act more decisively. . .

Let others say what they like. I am completely satisfied to be doing this job right now, and since the pay is enough to live on, I don’t care to argue about the conditions. This is one of my dreams come true.

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