Sometimes I want to write about work. Often, actually, as I’m coming home and before I end up unburdening myself on my poor beloved I contemplate entries. Entries about pain and suffering, about joy and success, about when the team comes together, or when the team fails to work.
I want to rant frustratedly about the lack of equipment, or the celebrate when the NHS rocks and everything happens quickly and effectively.
Sometimes I want to talk about the complaints, about the feelings of entitlement from members of the public, for whom 4 hours is far too much of their life to consider as an acceptable wait to see a Doctor, for whom the statement “I’m sorry for the long wait, but our doctors are very busy in resuscitation – we’ve got a lot of very sick patients at the moment” yields the reply “But I’ve hurt my toe”.
Sometimes I want to wax lyrical about the wonderful and patient people who suffer delays, who wait calmly and politely ask for us to meet their needs. Who understand as one nurse rushes around trying to meet the needs of 4, 6, 12 people who are all potentially sick. I want to thank them kindly when they send in their letters of thanks for the care we’ve delivered – because it lets me know I’m doing something right.
But it all disappears.
The dead people don’t often march through my brain, the ones we couldn’t save, or the ones for whom we only prolong the torment. The vulnerable adults and children I refer on to social services don’t often stick with me, at least not for a long time. But sometimes they pop by – usually making themselves known as I’m thinking about something positive.
My brain’s kind to me like that. It lets the nasty stuff go fairly easily – although Kathryn will attest that sometimes it takes a while.
Which is why I don’t often post about work.
