Goldfish: 1 Sam: 0

Today is the first day of my medical leave. I am officially too unwell to work.

Little Pickle (the spawn) is feeding me a cocktail of progesterone, estrogen and beta-HCG that somehow conspires to leave me nauseated, lightheaded and dizzy.

I think if I was still in family medicine, I could keep working. The regular, gentle hours, the slower pace and the flexibility of the days would all contribute to a puke-friendly environment.

This is in contrast to, say, ER. Where last night my patient revealed the thick yellow pus coursing from his foreskin, and I had to leave so I could throw up in the bin. His wife chastised me for making him feel bad.

Last weekend I was interviewing a psych patient who was being belligerent. He was yelling at me and the cops and kept saying, "Doc, doc! I just need you to tell me I can have a smoke!" I was trying to reason with him when I felt the dizziness rise. I had to get on the floor with my head between my knees so I didn't pass out. The cops were not happy with me.

Why do I tell these stories of weakness and failure?

Why not mention the awesome catch I made yesterday, when I discovered a hidden skull fracture under a deep laceration? Or tell the hilarious tale of the young woman who hadn't pooped in 11 days? (She's ok. We have stuff for that.)

Because I am riddled with guilt and confusion. I haven't been off work since 2005. I feel as though I have no purpose if I'm not working, or studying, or practicing something to make me a better doctor. So I write down the stories where my body couldn't keep up with demands of work to remind me: I can't do it right now.

Muy depressingo.

I suppose the blog will take a turn from now on. I can't bring myself to commit to the vicious, backstabbing world of mommy-blogs, but maybe I can continue to study and do fun facts and tips. Like managing an aortic dissection! Fun for the whole family!