January 2019

I excel at making excuses, especially when those excuses have to do with exercise. “I’m too tired” leads the list of why I am not outside walking or at the gym on the treadmill; “I’ll do it later” comes in a close second. Ironically, I consciously deprive myself of exercise, even when I know that I feel more energized when I do engage in some kind of physical fitness.  

From mid-April, when I ended the spring semester as a university teacher, until late August, when I began teaching again, I walked every morning for an hour. I either listened to the Broadway music emanating from my iPod or conversed with my colleague from work when she chose to join me. I came home feeling good—alive and eager to start the day.

Then, I returned to work—and to excuse making. As September gave way to October, Mother Nature provided me with wonderful excuses to stay home—rain, cold temperatures, strong winds and even snow and the possibility of icy sidewalks. I quickly returned to my couch potato life. 

“I realized with alarm that I hadn’t learned how to save anyone at all, not Dr. Sanders or Lazarus or Jimmy or Saul or Anna O., and that what I was thrilled about was learning how to save myself.” (House of God)

Two years ago my life drastically changed for the worse, and I faced an intersection in destiny. I chose the clinician’s path, knowing it is going to be demanding, hoping it will be satisfying. Life now is harder than I imagined, and every single day is a struggle. I live in a house that is no longer my home, and in a country that is no longer my own. Time has become my most precious resource, and yet the end-goal is vaguer than ever, even for a disciple of existential philosophy. Fighting to stay afloat, there is a light source, almost seen from my house: the hospital. There, constantly bustling with life, and occasionally death, stands the emergency department, young and proud.