Fear

One of my friends recently asked if I was afraid to work in healthcare right now. I thought about this question for a long time before I answered. In my life I have been through things, that emotionally, were worse then death. For that reason alone I don’t fear death. I asked myself, was I afraid of leaving my children behind? Kind of, but I know they would excel and do amazing things with the people left on earth to raise them. Selfishly, thinking of my 5 year old daughter and 7 year old son, growing and changing and not being there made me sad, but not fearful. Was I afraid of the potential pain associated with the death process? No, I know if I was gasping for my last breathe someone would give me medication to make me more comfortable.

What really caused me fear, was to be on this earth and not matter. For things to move on as if I never existed. Healthcare workers everywhere, regardless of health status, have had to think about their mortality. COVID suddenly brought things into the light. I am afraid I didn’t do enough. I didn’t help enough people. I didn’t leave a legacy for my kids to be proud of. I am afraid I will never get to, actually, be successful. I will never achieve some change of culture or policy or law that will help our society improve.

I have always worked for the next “thing.” I was always hard on myself. An A wasn’t good enough in school, unless it was the highest percentage in class. An award wasn’t good enough unless it was first place. In grade school I worked hard to make the Odyssey of the Mind team, we got third place at state, I was crushed. We didn’t live up to the potential I thought we had. Would my life be that? Would I be a third place finish?

I worry that I am going to be laying in the ICU, vented, unable to speak, and I will have never been able to do anything worthwhile. I won’t have planned for my kids’ college. I won’t have told enough people I love them. I won’t have written something memorable that will change lives. I will just be one more healthcare worker, on a ventilator, that dies. The story will probably read, “Minnesota Doctor Dies.” However, by the time that happens it may just be a statistic the MDH rolls out.

What was all this for? Why did I do this? I worked my entire life to become a doctor. I was strategic with every group I joined. I put so much pressure on myself to get the perfect GPA. I was scared one miss step would sink my chances of getting into medical school. For that reason, I was the pain in the butt goody goody resident assistant. I never smoked. I went to all my classes. I tried to help my friends and family. I had romantic and platonic relationships that ended up not being real, or honest or good, the kind that just crush your soul and break you from the inside out. I told myself all these experiences would make me a better person. I would be stronger and I would be a better physician because the traumas I went through.

My whole life was centered around my job. I was never away from my phone. I always took calls and came in for deliveries. I sacrificed time with my children, birthdays, holidays and events. All of this so I could grow my practice. I did this because I entered into this noble profession, one that many of us see as a higher calling, and in a way a lifestyle, and it can become our main identity. And yet, my life and worth in this world comes down to policy. Calculated risks that other people in the country will make for us here in Minnesota. We get to just hope Santa Clause or the Tooth Fairy will protect us from pathogens that we are at war with. I am fighting so I can protect my patients and colleagues. I’m fighting so I don’t become another statistic. Yes, I am afraid of something, and it is to be on a ventilator in an ICU, and despite all my earthly efforts, die, and become a statistic, and never actually make my mark on the world or reach my full potential.

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