My string of days off began with a bike ride, weightlifting, reading the New Yorker lazily on the sofa.
A friend I hadn't seen in years came over for coffee. We had reconnected after they received a life-altering diagnosis (something that is becoming more frequent among my peer group).
Interestingly, health was a minor part of the overall conversation. It revolved far more around personal and professional identity, parenting, growing together with your partner - pretty heavy topics that came out naturally during the conversation.
The next day, another bike ride followed by planning for a far-fetched plan to navigate a section of the LA River by personal watercraft. A friend who shares my penchant for adventures agreed to join me as a scofflaw river bandit for a morning next week. I reviewed maps, identified areas where we may need to portage due to rocks, and ensured we had the equipment necessary for the task (I own most of it). If it's a success, we hope to persuade our families to join us on the next attempt.
Then it was coffee with a different friend, someone who was starting to feel a bit of professional dissatisfaction in emergency medicine. I happily invited my friend to help me on the administrative side of medicine on a part-time basis, with the hope that this will allow extension of their professional runway.
We'd both lost sleep for several nights - someone we cared about had a dying spouse with elementary school age children, and it was heartbreaking.
A recurring theme in our conversation was that the veil that separates ER docs who give life-changing diagnoses from the Other that is their patients appeared to have lifted. We no longer felt safe.
The delusion that we once were (a form of folie a deux scaled to encompass most people who work in healthcare) is one of the things that allow us to do our jobs without acknowledging our frailty, susceptibility and limited time.
Physicians need to believe we are bulletproof to step into the crossfire. When we directly experience one of our own betrayed by their body, it unmoors us.
Something I hadn't expected is that it also floods us with appreciation for our ability today, gratitude for our time now.
My wife has suggested a big ticket summer vacation for some time, and I've been reluctant because it would increase our travel spend substantially. I've always thought that it's a trip we should take when the kids are in college, after we're well on the other side of the sequence of returns risk we'll be facing in the next few years. Her reply to me when we last discussed it, coming from a place of health scares, was Let's just make sure we are able and around to do it by the time we plan to do it. I'm looking into next summer.
Last night I felt complacent, stayed up too late, and considered skipping out on the 3-4 foot swell predicted for my local break according to the surf report.
This morning, I overcame inertia to be in the water by 7:15 am. The walk to the sand was exploding with wildflowers, the surface was glassy, and a guy from work surprised me by paddling up to greet me in the lineup an hour into the session.
I stayed in for almost two hours.
I want to use my physical abilities before my body betrays me. I want to remaingrateful that I still can.