The Day I Knew I Wasn’t a Doctor Anymore

What am I doing here? I asked myself as I looked around the mostly desolate parking lot.

Empty storefront.

McDonald’s.

Another empty storefront.

Convenience store.

Dialysis unit.

It was still dark outside. And cold.

There were just a handful of cars in the sea of open asphalt. Most of the patients couldn’t drive. Blind. Weak. Old. Not safe for the roads.

I grabbed my stethoscope and my notebook—the one that helped me keep track of billing.

As the wind whipped my thinning hair, I noted a few snowflakes landing harmlessly on my windshield.

Lake Erie. Nature’s snow machine.

Then I walked in.

No narcotics prescribed here, said the sign on the front door.

Once through, my eyes shifted to the sign offering translation services. Everyone spoke English there.

The carpet looks even older in the winter.

I slowly hung my coat on the coat rack, letting my eyes adjust to the fluorescent lighting before making my way down the hallway into the dialysis unit.

Still haven’t fixed the floor.

The smell was familiar. The patient in Chair 1 had recently had his left leg amputated. Now the right one was being slowly consumed by bacteria, and the antibiotics were fighting a losing battle.

We exchanged pleasantries.

I reviewed his treatment, knowing full well that nothing I did or didn’t do could change the big picture. Transplant was out of the question. The days were numbered.

I checked a box in my notebook and moved on.

As I made my way around the unit, I asked myself if anyone had a light at the end of the tunnel.

Dementia. No.

End-stage multiple myeloma. No.

Advanced COPD. No.

Just high blood pressure. Maybe—but the active cocaine use…

Already had a transplant. Didn’t take the medications.

Each time I remembered the notebook, moving quietly to the next chair.

After completing the loop, I sat down to write my notes.

As I worked, my thoughts shifted to lunch. The highlight of the day, in between shifts.

I scribbled my last note and stepped back out into the elements.

The flakes were a bit bigger, though one flip of the wipers was enough to whisk them away.

I headed to the sandwich shop down the street, the one where I felt like everyone stared at me. Maybe in my head. Maybe not.

But the sandwiches were good.

I felt a transient jolt of energy, ready for the second shift.

Different patients.

Different stories.

The same dead end.

One chair was empty. I asked the charge nurse, expecting one of two responses—the hospital or heaven.

It was the latter.

I indicated that in my notebook.

And I moved on.

I forced a few smiles. Exchanged more pleasantries. Made a handful of minor tweaks. Finished my notes.

I had a fleeting sense of accomplishment, tempered by my dirty little secret—I hadn’t accomplished anything.

I said goodbye to the nurses, hearing the words of Radiohead echo between my ears.

I don’t belong here.

As I turned toward the snow globe outside, I took one more look around, knowing that soon, I would never be back.