In my last post I shared an overview of a single week in our home and explored the ways in which both our lives tend to revolve around J's schedule. Today, I'm going to dive a little deeper into "Call," "Post-call," what it means for J in his general surgery program, and how it differs from those in other surgical residency programs like orthopedics, ENT, and plastics.
In preparing this blog post I reached out to other spouses of surgeons and surgical residents to ask them what call was like for their partners throughout residency. The answers were insightful, eye-opening, and far more varied than I was anticipating. They incited strong feelings of solidarity alongside plenty of head-shaking. They reminded us all of the ways our partner's schedules seem to defy the arbitrary distinctions in calendars and dates. And they revealed some of the flaws in the overall surgical education system, flaws which I hope to explore with more research (and not just gut reactions) in the coming months.
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First, a few announcements:
When I tell people my husband is a surgical resident, some like to comment on how little we must see of each other. Having little to compare it to, his 80-hour weeks are the norm and set the baseline for how I live my life and how we manage our relationship. But some weeks are harder than others and last week was particularly brutal due to a confluence of events including two call days, an interview out of state, and a minor programmatic crisis at work. Here, I share a glimpse into the life of a surgeon's spouse:
Sunday: Call J and I both wake up early - me to get a head start on the large To Do list of home- and work-related tasks for the weekend, J to go to work. He has to be in the hospital by 8 am for a call shift that will keep him busy until at least 10 am tomorrow. I have the day to myself, but I also have the laundry, the groceries, the errands, the dishes, the cleaning. . . At the day's end, when everything except the laundry is checked off the list, I call J for just a few moments to see how call is going and to say goodnight. Then I sprawl out on the bed and relish having its entirety to myself for the evening. Our cat, Clara, claims the extra pillow. I remember the Sunday paper.
I got it from the porch, rolled into a heavy log with a story inscribed in each ring, although I was far too young to be interested in them. Rather, I dug out the comics and we passed it around the family, chuckling to ourselves and waiting anxiously for each other to get to the punchlines we knew were coming so we could laugh together. It was a special little highlight of each week. For a time, our Sunday newspaper also featured a Magic Eye stereogram, and I marveled at how my dad seemed to possess the super-human ability to see the hidden 3D figure instantaneously every time. When all I saw were chaotic squiggles like static on a television screen, he saw animals, flowers, trees, hearts, faces floating in a sea of color. I was desperate to develop the skill, certain these Magic Eye prints in the paper held untold secrets to life. He taught me by holding the paper above me as I focused on the wall across the table, then lowering the paper in front of my face with gentle reminders not to let my focus shift. If we did it just right, something amazing reached out to me from the cluttered mess of meaningless shapes and lines. Maybe not the meaning of life, but something just as valuable to my 8-year-old self. |
AuthorNashira is a music teacher and proud Small-Town Jew who, after surthriving six years in Brooklyn for her husband's surgical residency, is finally back in Wisconsin where she belongs! At least until the end of the two-year surgical fellowship, that is. It's a wild ride, and she's ready to tell you all about it! Archives
September 2019
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