Year

"It's Friday. Finally. Howya doing?" She looks dispirited, hair over her face. I've just won my battle with the combination lock, never a sure thing.

"It's Friday." A sigh, as she skims out of scrubs. Sits on the narrow bench. "When do I stop feeling dumb?"

"RN or scrub?" I ask. I'm newly back, I can hardly keep track of the orderlies who have become scrubs become nurses in the three years I have been gone. I have not worked with her yet at all. I remember to take my schedule book from my OR pouch and put it with the purse to take home.

"RN. I've been circulating, I asked them to let me not scrub for a while until I get this." Apologetic, abashed, she slips shoes on.

"Good, I did the same for a month when I was shiny new. I needed it. Have you been here a year yet?" Her face squeezes, 'no'. "It takes a good year."

"It's true, it really does!" A voice from behind the locker, an experienced scrub, who had been very quick learning, W waves and leaves. Definitely shift change. I'm half dressed. Or half undressed, depending on mood.

"So I'll be smart again after a year?" A big grin, hopeful.

"You're smart now. You feel dumb because you can see how far you still have to go. Proof that you really are smart. I had a big moment of 'I can do anything' at two years as well. This takes time, there is so much to it. I still have moments of idiocy, after ten years, I'm back at bottom unexpectedly, after being gone."

Another voice on her way out the door. "I still have 'em," L, who has the most meticulously, rationally, clearly organized room I have ever seen. "And I never left!" She laughs, an infectious, kind chuckle. "Have a good weekend," and is gone as well.

Newish nurse, whose name escapes, is dressed, as am I. "We forget how hard it is, the first time we put on sterile gloves in front of an impatient surgeon. How hard all these necessary little tasks that we've done hundreds of times are when it's all new and scary. A certain courage in your own ability grows with each day, and the thrill gets better, and the dumb feeling less."

Slam the locker, worried that I have forgotten something. We walk out. "It gets better. If you think this is all fun and really cool when it's going well, you are on the path. If you don't enjoy it, even when you've got it working, you probably never will."

"Oh, I love it. So, I'll get this, right? Promise?"

"Absolutely. Then you'll come and do Ortho." She shakes her head at me, laughs. Yeah, she'll be fine.

"I needed to hear that. See you Monday." I take the stairs down. It's 99°F (38°C ) outside.



This is a familiar conversation. I heard it when I was new and swamped, I spun it for the folks I trained who are now training me again, I will play it as a motif of my work-life in surgery. I knew from my first week that I'd found my niche, the effort produces the value. At least 51% of the time, I love my job. Often, much more.