Identity Crisis

Yesterday I lost my ID badge while on call. I searched under the beds of every room I saw a patient in. Dug through the bloodied linens and discarded gowns from the deliveries I attended. Checked what I thought was every crevice of the entire obstetrical floor. Had housekeeping, security, laundry services, front desk, and the entire nursing staff plus several helpful visitors looking for it.

As it turns out I had taken it off to do a speculum exam and left the damn thing on the windowsill beside me. I'm real smart some days. Unfortunately the amazing nurses that went on the hunt for me didn't find it until this morning, after I spent the night fretting about how to replace a badge from a university 5 hours away.

Without the badge I can't access the ER. If a patient codes, I can't get in there with any rapidity. I can't access the surgical floor. If a patient goes for immediate c section, I can't get in or even get the scrubs I need to do deliveries. I don't even have access to the local gym, with the access tied to my badge. Out of shape as I am, I do enjoy the 30mins of walking and sauna time I get.

Most importantly, maybe, I realized for the first time how much I tied my self view into the two little letters in front of my name. D. R.

Two letters I spent my life until now pursuing. Dreaming the day I enter university, get accepted into medical school, become a resident and finally paid (less than minimum wage by hourly, but still) to be a physician. The MD behind my name. The Dr in front of my name.

Residency can still be more challenging for me so far. I feel like I'm not being pushed to my limits daily, which I had masochistically hoped for. That said, it's still an immersive experience that, especially in my rural settings, takes over most if not all of my life.

I used to identify part of me as a dancer. A classically trained ballroom dancer with preference for the rumba. Since leaving my long term dance partner back in Ontario, that's faded out of my life. The only vestiges of it are my daily preference for high heels.

Cooking was an invested daily activity that even my residency application letters were based on. Yet constantly on the move across the island, limited groceries and with most of my favoured cooking tools (my fondue pot cries out at night for me I'm sure) back in Ontario, I've been subsiding on a diet of microwave and half-ready meals. My waistline and wallet is paying for it, believe me.

Going out with friends, even if it meant just dumping our laptops on the couch and pretending to study while we gossiped about the controversy du jour, is non existent. Very few people anywhere that I've been placed has had people my age. People around the same place in life as me, even less.

By that above statement I mean I've delivered too many second, third, fourth babies to parents many years younger than me. There are no groups of 20somethings looking to go out and hike together, but many mommy and me groups on the social media here. My bare few coresidents and I are scattered throughout the island, often on different rotations, and can barely meet up on a monthly basis.

All this to say, when I lost my badge at about 2AM in the morning after a rough call shift, I bawled like a baby in bed. Freaked out that I am nothing without a scrap of plastic identifying me as a doctor. No other labels in life, nothing to cling onto except those letters.