24 hours

Last night was my last night shift for the week and as it was relatively quiet I had time to sit and reflect on life. Life always seems so much more abstract when its dark and your sitting alone in the early hours of the morning waiting for dawn to breach the quiet.

For the past 4 weeks I've been working in paediatrics (kids medicine) and it suddenyl dawned on me that finally it had come. The day I had looked forward to. I was living my dreams. You see, 10 years ago when I was 14 yrs old and doing work experience at a hospital, I bumped into a paediatrician who took me aside to talk to me about medicine. At the time I knew I wanted to do something that helped people, something with science (cos I was a nerd) and medicine seemed like a good mix. He gave up about 30 minutes of his time to talk with me about the training process for medicine and the various specialities available at the end. Being a naive 14 yr old I was kinda apprehensive about anything to do with old people so his chosen profesison of paediatrics appealed instantly. I determined that night that I wanted to be a paediatrician and so began the next 10 years of my life. High school, med school, internship and residency all flew by to lead me to the point where in the black of night I sat in a cold hospital ED and finally lived out my dream. I'm finally working in paediatrics. My dream has been reached.

At that point, I was briefly interupted by the nurses who were beginning to devolve into politically incorrect comments again about all non-Australian born doctors being terrorists. I tried to imagine them with white pointy hats and flaming torches running around Sydney.

I then opened up a book I've been meaning to read for ages but never had a chance to. And I manged to finish it in one night. "The Outsider" - by Albert Camus. The existentialist novel that one a Nobel prize for literature and helped define a philosophical movement fueled by the irrationaility of life. Meursault will not pretend. He refuses to give in to societal norms of emotion, love, grief or remorse. When faced with the death sentence, he gains a perspective on life that helps him see the truth of the reality and futility of life and pretence. To quote Camus's Afterword "Lying is not only saying what isn't true. It is also, in fact especially, saying more than is true and, in the case of the human heart, saying more than one feels. We all do it, every day, to make life simpler."

However the bit that really resonated with me was how the protagonist reacted to his mother's death. Or perhaps more accurately, how he did not react. He is accused in court of being a criminal for not crying or showing remorse (which society would expect of him). But to him, he enjoys the beauty of the beach or the warmth of Marie and that means he has no time for such meaningless or pointless things such as grief. It made me wonder... cos sometimes I find myself identifying with Meursault and his situation. I tire sometimes of feeling bad about Dad and his impending death. I find myself talking about it as if it's as common as going to the movies or getting my hair cut (if I had hair).

I walked out of ED as the sun rose feeling deeply introspective. I hopped in my car and began the 5 hour car trip home (not a good diea after a long night shift... but I made it home safely) On the way home I stopped in to the psychiatric ward to see my Dad. Having worked in psychiatry it was a familiar sight. The colourful paint job to disguise the true purpose of the facililty. The 2 staged locked doors to prevent escapes. The circular architecture to promote an 'open' environment. The swagger of people with extra-pyramdial side effects. I asked a nurse if I could see my father. They looked at their patient list trying to recognise a name. It was obvious they were a typical psych nurse and had about as much functional cognition as the patients do.

Finally we opened the door to his room and there he lay. Sleeping. Sedated out of his mind on anti-psychotics and mood stabilisers. After much rousing he finally got up and it took a while for him to register who I was. As soon as he realised it was me, he grabbed his bag and started throwing his clothes into a bag. A sinking feeling wahsed over me as I realised he though I had come to liberate him from hospital. It took about 20 minutes to explain to him that he couldn't go home.

He made a wobbly effort to get up and began a slow shuffling gait charecteristic of his pharmacotherapy. He took me on a tour of his new temporary home and introduced me to some of his new friends he'd met and even converted. He 'shouted' me a Coke from the vending machine - echoing long ago memories of our father and son times spent bonding over 2 cans of Coke. This time however, it was my turn to listen to him and give up my time to be with him.

We talked about family issues and relatives who'd become enagaged. But only after I had explained to him who those relatives were. Eventually it was time for lunch and so I escorted him to the dining room so I could use this as a distraction to leave. He would have none of it and demanded to walk me to my car. The ensuing struggle left me having to sneak out and him banging on the glass with the look of the betrayed on his face. I turned my back on him. I turned away from the pounding and calling and kept walking. I couldn't turn around again. I wouldn't be able to deal with it.

Camus may have had no compassion, no feelings, no meaning in suffering; but I cannot. My dreams have been realised. My aspirations have been achieved and now my Dad's dreams are being pulled apart like a fraying thread. He was so helpless and I had to walk away. I'm sleep deprived, I'm confused and I have no idea what to do.