Befuddlement

It was the best of times. It was the worst of times.

Or so I am frequently told.

Frankly, I don't find the times very enjoyable. In all honesty, though, I have no idea how to interpret them. These times apparently be confusing.

Relatively speaking us Air Force residents have got it easy. Compared to the internal medicine residencies of yesterday where interns and residents were shackled to their wards, forced to work while sleeping, and generally treated like so much chattel, we live lives of luxury with slashed work hours, broken chains, and alleviated patient burdens. Everyone always says it was harder back in the day -- and I am inclined to believe them -- nevertheless I am also inclined to believe that back in the day there were infrequent CT scans, no MRIs, only a handful of blood tests, and a pharmacy consisting mostly of a few penicillins, ergotamine, and phenobarbital. Twenty patients ain't so bad when all you can do is lay on hands and hope for the best.

Beyond that we've got it easy in other ways too. Compared to many civilian programs we work less, see fewer patients, are paid better, and likely are showed more appreciation by our patients. And compared to the hobos living immediately outside my apartment at least I have more to come home to than cheap booze and some invisible pets.

In absolute terms, however, residency is so much balderdash. We still work harder, longer, and with less perks and less confidence than the vast majority of Americans. Our job is in its very design constructed to make us feel continuously ill prepared so as to constantly compel us to learn. And through a legacy of estrangement many who teach and guide us have no great sympathy for our lot.

So how am I supposed to feel? Frustrated that it's not better? Happy that it's not worse? Thankful that I get to train for the unique career of my choosing or upset that all I do is train for the unique career of my choosing? I am undoubtedly incomparably blessed, but this particular blessing comes with an odd trial before the spoils. I have no means of measure and so am constantly wavering between emotions; I find myself muttering under my breath perhaps more than is healthy, and am thinking of joining the hobos.

Perhaps they'll let me take care of the invisible cat.