Residency Files #1 - Cloudy with a Chance of Sunshine

How I wish we weren't living in such an interesting time in human history. A few days ago, the USA and Israel bombed Iran amidst ongoing peace negotiations, and Iran retaliated (as they said they would) by bombing US bases in nearby territories. In the Philippines, we are feeling the ripples of this event -  just last night, President Bongbong Marcos declared a four-day workweek for government offices to ration our oil reserves. In the background, Duterte remains locked up in the International Criminal Court in the Hague, absent from his pre-trial hearings, where past media footage of him proudly announcing his kill counts are being played as official court evidence. Coincidentally, his daughter Inday Sara also recently announced her bid to run for president in 2028. Also, none of the big fish from the flood control scandal have been jailed yet.

As if the local political turmoil weren't enough already, we have to deal with impending World War 3. Interesting times indeed. It all feels so absurd and unreal that I wouldn't be surprised if tomorrow White Walkers started popping up across the Antarctic. 

Fortunately (or unfortunately?) for me, I have my psychiatry residency training to keep me mostly distracted from doomsday. It's my third month in, and I've already established a routine - wake up, clock in, attend didactics (lectures), hang around in the callroom and chat with batchmates or seniors, see patients, schedule patients, go home. When any hint of war-related anxiety creeps in I make like a Mormon from the Book of Mormon musical and Turn It Off. 

I still do 24- to 36-hour duties about once a week, and although this is again a really good schedule compared to other residency programs, I still end up feeing so drained and tired in the days afterwards that it makes me question my decision to enter training in this 30-something chronically immunocompromised body.

Scene from the PGH Hearts Month launch

I was in this state of questioning the other day when I unexpectedly received an answer. I was in the consultation room, face-to-face with the father of one of my patients. As I was explaining to him for the first time what the diagnosis of his child was, he looked visibly tense - his shoulders were up, arms crossed, knees together, brows furrowed. He told me about how, in their child's worst moments of sickness, they were no longer "themselves," and he began to mourn the child he feels he had lost. I nodded solemnly and explained to him the symptoms of the condition, the chronicity of it, the impairment in function that it can cause.

Then came the prognosis - many patients with the same condition as his child,  with proper medical attention and support from their loved ones, are able to return to periods of being "normal." As soon as those words left my mouth, he breathed a huge sigh of relief, clasped my hands, and with tears in his eyes, exclaimed a joyous hay salamat dok! 

I couldn't help but tear up myself, surprised at his sudden outburst of emotions, but even more surprised at my own. I hadn't realized until that moment that I had been bottling up, due to my own caution, these tiny feelings of joy. I had been seeing this patient for around 4 sessions already and with each one, they seemed to be slowly improving, able to rejoin group activities, able to resume having "normal" conversations with their loved ones. With each session, I prevented myself from feeling happiness about their improvements, afraid that it would be temporary or premature. But in that moment - hands clasped with their dad - there it was, catching me by surprise: my unbridled joy. 

So that's how residency has been going so far: I've settled into a comfortable-ish routine where I push myself to go to the hospital, and overload my brain with work to avoid the uncomfortable realities of the world. Despite everything unfolding outside the hospital walls, I am fortunate to find small pockets of joy within the people I meet each day, quiet reminders of why it's important to keep on going.