Someone absolutely awesome was elected president
- I finished 2 straight months of wards without passing out, quitting, hyperventilating, or regressing to a fugue state in which I am reduced to waddling aimlessly in the hospital clutching an abandoned hospital gown as a security blanket
The first event, arguably slightly more momentous than the second, has already garnered a fair share of coverage by such fringe publications and offbeat blogs as Newsweek, Slate, Time Magazine, etc. etc. In the spirit of the day when HIAD becomes a household name (laughter? is that laughter I hear? As Joe the Plumber ekes by on his $250,000 annual pittance, "K" the blogger battles callused, carpal-tunnel ridden fingers, an overheating laptop and frown wrinkles gratis....all for you, my Loyal Readership (Population: 4?). At least you can play along.), here's my personal, intelligent contribution to the fray:
WOW.
Okay. It doesn't take a rocket scientist (or a doctor?) to understand the impact of this watershed election, that it's a symbolic and cathartic achievement dedicated to the sacrifices of past activists, a moment to be treasured by citizens valuing equality, civil rights and justice, etc. But: how about understanding the unfolding of the campaign through the eyes of an overworked, underpaid, grouchy, TV-deficient resident carrying several risk factors for don't-care-about-elections-because-it's-not-like-they're-going-to-discharge-my-patients-or-give-me-weekends-off-or-a-pay-raise syndrome?
The average layperson, after all, knows the life of a resident is fairly "busy", with that pesky pager potentially interfering with such things as Eating, Sleeping, Going to the Bathroom, let alone those civic duties known as Voting and Being Politically Informed. And yet, across America, zombie-like interns buried in their tired HIPPA-compliant progress notes and fecal-occult-blood-testing cards unhooked the stethoscope-noose around their neck, looked up at the rousing voice of change - and Cared.
I know I speak for more than one intern when I say that even 12-hour days filled with scutty minutiae did not keep me from being an informed and politically (over)involved citizen. I promptly joined the ranks of approximately 99.99% of my fellow San Franciscans by buying my OBAMA-BIDEN 2008 sticker (and sporting my "Read My Lipstick: I'm Voting Democrat" bonus button), cheerfully canvassed voters by phone in swing states after work (luckily, as election results now show, I didn't hurt Barack's campaign too much), scrimped on lattes and shoes to direct my small-dollar, working-class, earned-by-the-sweat-of-my-brow, fished-out-from-the-change-return-slot-of-vending-machines contributions to his campaign, treasured and categorized every one of the 15,009 email correspondences and text messages sent by Barack and friends (Say what you will, but I know the campaign personalized mine. I just know. I mean, we're on a first-name basis! And they liked me so much that they're still emailing me. How many of you can say that???)
Don't get me wrong - it's not as though my life as an intern was on complete hold during this peskily nail-biting, convulsion-inducing, rapture-producing election season. The two arenas simply coalesced and congealed, much like those uneaten pancakes Barack ordered at a diner in Pennsylvania, or like Joe Lieberman's efficacy in the Senate. My key memories of the campaign unfolded in the sterile environs of the hospital. It was while palpating a patient's abdomen early one September morning, for example, that I saw on the TV the headline from CNN: "Breaking News: McCain Picks Gov. Sarah Palin as VP". (Seconds later, two nurses were in the room responding to the call button said patient had pushed, prying my hands off the patient's abdomen - upon which I had absent-mindedly begun compressing with unrestrained panic as I imagined the implications of a VP Palin.) And it was during one long night as cross-cover intern that I ran down 9 flights of stairs, bounded across corridors, leapt over such obstacles as runaway crash carts, lost medical students, beeping pagers and piles of inkless gel pens, breathlessly punched the code to the resident lounge just in the nick of time to tune into PBS and Gwen Ifill moderating the presidential debate. (To think. If I'd been running to a code, I probably could've saved a life or two.)
Like most of my fellow residents, I stayed glued to CNN, quoted stirring passages from debates to anyone who would listen, poured out my vision for the country and helpful suggestions for his campaign in eloquent messages sent to barackobama.com. Okay, so maybe I was the only one quoting passages and sending messages, since my wet-blanket fellow residents apparently felt it was more important to do "doctor" things like write orders, check patient vitals or reconcile medications. (Talk about misplaced priorities.)
And the result, as we all know, was sweet. That extra little tremor in the earth you felt at around 11 pm EST on Nov 4, 2008? No, wise-alecks, not me in high heels stepping down from the bus....no, not the stampede of patients fleeing from my Strep Throat RapidScreen Test swab...no, not the thud of my shopping bags after a very productive 5-hour shopping spree at H&M. (You all, I must say, are very poor guessers.) That jolt was the rumble of about 760,000-odd San Franciscans cheering and toasting the official Democratic victory in unison. After all, this is the city that placed on its official ballot Proposition R, calling for the renaming of the city's Oceanside Water Treatment Plant to the George W. Bush Sewage Plant. (Rumor has it the workers at the sewage plant revolted against this, not wanting to work for a company with "George W. Bush" in its name.)
On the political squawk-box, you heard a lot of talk about the crucial role of various key voting blocs: blue-collar America, white-collar america, green-collar america, hockey moms, diaper-changing dads, parsnip-sauteeing, arugula-wilting singles, bald white gun-toting racoon hunters, manicured black Prada-wearing metrosexuals, Porta-potty-frequenting ultramarathoners, etc. The truth? I humbly submit before you: It was us, the Supposed-to-be-White-but-More-like-A-Gray-Brown White Coats of America, the Interns, that brought it home for Barack.
And on that note, I think I hear some parsnips calling my name. Change.gov, here I come.
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