Brain Games

5. Acquaintances

At 5:00 a.m. my alarm clock goes off, and for the first time ever in my life I debate hitting the snooze button. But instead of hitting Snooze I decide to let my alarm blare for a solid two minutes until I finally silence it, hoping the shrill noise will wake up my neighbor(s) just as their shrill sounds kept me up all night.

I swear, it's like they had a sex marathon throughout the whole night. They were at it until three in the morning, going round after round. I don't know what pills or vitamins they're on, but I need it in the form of coffee. Especially if I want to survive today. I'm going to need all the energy I can get.

Reluctantly, I grab my glasses from my night stand, shoving them on my face—even though I still have my eyes closed. Blindly, I get up and trudge to the kitchen, using my sense of touch to pat my way around walls and furniture to the coffee maker. I want to kiss myself for already prepping it last night so all I have to do is push the On button, which I can find blindly since this coffee maker has been my life line for the past six years. Even if I didn't prep it last night, I could set this baby up blindfolded.

I listen to the blessed sound of the coffee maker warming up, gurgling its way to life. Leaning over the counter, I rest my forehead on the cool granite until I smell the coffee brewing and hear it dripping into the pot.

When it's done, I stand up and grab a mug from the cabinet, managing to open my eyes long enough to pour myself some coffee so I don't accidentally burn myself. As soon as the coffee is in my mug, my eyes are closed once more and my lips are sealed to the mug, taking slow and tentative sips, letting the warm liquid fill my belly and fuel my brain.

Once I'm finished with my first cup and I feel a little more alive, I pour myself another cup and take it to the bathroom with me as I shower and get ready for the day.

At 7:00 a.m. sharp I'm dressed in a blush colored blouse with ruffled sleeves and black dress pants. I slip on my stylish yet sensible flats before grabbing my bag and heading out the door. It's approximately a twenty minute walk to Warner so I hold my head high and thrust myself into the madness of the New York City foot traffic. I fall into a fast paced step and brush shoulders with those in business, stock brokers, writers, entrepreneurs, and many other occupations in the hectic morning traffic. Everyone here seems so mechanic, robotic, knowing exactly what they're doing and where they're headed. I feel like it's one wrong or slow step and I'm roadkill. Hopefully one day I'll be able to blend in and get the hang of it all. The complete whirlwind of the city makes me both anxious and excited for that day to come.

Managing not to get bulldozed over in the busy morning commute, I stand outside of Warner in one piece, looking up at the building and admiring it in the morning glow. All the windows reflect the orange-y haze and golden rays of the rising sun, making such a portentous place look so beautiful.

Behind those windows, inside that building, there's life, there's death, there's abundance amounts of joy and immense, irrevocable pain every day, all at the hands of people like me. Being a doctor—being a surgeon—is as close to playing God as you can get. It takes years of knowledge, patience, skill, dedication, discipline and hard work. Some days are better than others, more rewarding, but there are days when you feel like all that hard work was for nothing. Sometimes, no matter how hard you try, your best isn't good enough. It doesn't matter how much you want to save lives, sometimes you just can't. Death is inevitable.

The body is a strange thing we have yet to fully figure out, learning something new about it every day. Those days when we learn instead of take a loss are so worth it. But sometimes we have to learn through loss—the ultimate sacrifice. However, those days when you're able to help someone outweigh the long, frustrating days of uncertainty and loss.