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
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