I’m bored. I’ve resorted to two strategies which are the resident’s equivalent of standing on a bare hill in a thunderstorm and holding a piece of metal: strolling through the halls discussing how bored I am and how much I would like anything at all to happen, and sitting in the nurses’ station rather conspicuously napping, reading a sci-fi novel, and following political commentary on National Review, which is pretty much begging for the nurses to decide I don’t have enough work to do, and to come up with some for me. They didn’t. All that happened was I got tired even of the novel (not as good as the book it’s a prequel to), got tired of reading about Obama and Palin, and was forced to read a chapter of Greenfield online in order to stay awake.

My white cloud has come back with a vengeance; for a while there on trauma I thought I’d shaken it for good, but no. No transplants in sight. All my patients are getting better, and very few new ones are coming in. (Somebody remind me how much I hated it when my patients were dying; I ought to at least enjoy discharging people to home for a change.)

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