Me & Bobby McGee

Sitting in LAX with a film of fatigue & sweat coating my skin, I feel strangely at peace.

Perhaps it was the All Blacks doing the safety demonstration on my flight. Perhaps it's the way the barista didn't sneer at my request for a skinny latte (in Melbourne, this is a deportable offence; skinny milk doesn't enhance the roast correctly). Perhaps my 30-hour stench is warding off stress and ennui. It's certainly cleared me a space at the departure lounge.

My intern year is done. I am a fully accredited, licensed doctor.

I have absolutely no idea where this year will take me. I've got plans for every continent. Jobs in every hemisphere. Reefs to dive, sun to catch, canals to skate, exams to write.

For the first time in 5 years, I have no idea where I'll be in 6 months. It's so exciting that I almost don't need a third latte. Then again, I'm turning 30, unemployed and contemplating moving into my parent's basement. Extra strong, please.

I owe a massive thank you to Ian who made an "airports and trips home" mix a few months back. I'm spending the next three weeks with it on permanent rotation. Decisions will be made with an excellent soundtrack.

And to my regular readers, thank you for following me all through the year; I'm out until I've got another job (doctor or dive instructor, either one) or until I move to Christchurch.

Kia Ora!

goodnight and good luck

Dear Cardiothoracics,

As we enter our last week together, I can't help feeling bittersweet about the last 3 months.

You, frankly, were awful to me. You took my sleep, my social life, my self-esteem and my ass (no food = no booty). You broke me down to almost nothing. I dreamt about you, horrible nightmares where people never stopped bleeding. I would wake up gasping, then count down the days until I was free.

But now that I'm almost there, I find that I'm not ready to leave. Perhaps I've been institutionalised. Perhaps it's the Stockholm syndrome talking. Or perhaps I can see that while you may have been the breaking of me, you have also been the making. Cos I can handle you.

I can work these hours. I can manage these patients. I can stitch these wounds. I can put in these chest tubes. I can run with the alpha males and keep up. I can do this.

(You have also messed with my head in serious ways; I'm pretty sure my desire to stay means there's a disturbing masochistic streak in me. My boss verbally abused me the other day and I thanked him. He laughed, "Hit me again, sir". Creepy.)

Still, at the end, I must thank you. If I can survive you, I can survive anything. Which means I have unlimited options for the future.

What are these plans? I don't know. I have 4.5 more days with you, then the world is my oyster.

So, thank you for all that you've done for me. Best of luck with your future endeavours (growing grafts in test tubes! endoscopic vein harvests!). Perhaps we'll run into each other in a hospital in Canada. I'd like that.

All the best. Truly.

Sam