heartbreak ridge

Sometimes, I really hate my job.

Really, really hate it.

Like last night, I noticed one of my patients had taken what seems like a major turn for the worst. I don't think he's going to get better. I don't even think he wants to get better. And while I've seen stranger things happen, I think he might die soon.

I also think whatever part of him is still on this planet in any meaningful way--and I don't mean physically--wants to be with his wife, wherever in the cosmic universe she is.

And, just so we're clear, I also kind of like to think that when we die, we just sort of jostle around in the universe, like bright bits of lights, knocking into each other to say "Hello!" and "Haven't seen you in awhile! How're the kids?" and "Hey! Looks like you lost some weight there, buddy! Looks good!"

I like to think the happiness we had in life--whatever it was--remains, somewhere, cosmically.

Which is kind of stupid, and antithetical to Doses of Reality As I've Come to Know Them, but seeing over and over and over again how lonely and fucking pathetic death is, I like to hold out the hope that we get a little bit of a reprieve, somehow, when all is said and done.

As for me, I think I need a new job. Maybe something a little more life-affirming than what I do for a living now, like put the "inspected by number 21" stickers on Gap jeans, or train to be an assassin-for-hire. At least, as an assassin, I'd be giving people quick, relatively painless deaths, instead of these long, humiliating, drawn-out carnival shows we put on at the hospital.