Between medical training and motherhood, I have become very acquainted with sleep deprivation. I've written before about my preference for a cute baby being the waking agent over a plastic pager.
And upon further consideration, I've decided that, indeed, I handle motherhood sleep deprivation better than the medical sort. Here's my evidence:
During my third year of medical training, I was spending one particularly brutal Saturday night at the hospital. Brutal because we had been working from sun-up to sun-down, and seemingly on to sun-up again without a break. Super fun.
But then after midnight, the stream of patients to admit had slowed, and it appeared that everything was temporarily wrapped up.
"Go lie down for an hour", my resident said. I didn't need to be told twice. I made my way down to the abandoned wing of the hospital they let us sleep in, and found an empty room. I sat down and heaved a heavy sigh. Oh, I was tired.
My clogs were just laid next to my bed, my white coat barely having been dropped on the floor, and my head almost touching the pillow when, 'beep beep! Beep beep!' I stared at it in disbelief. Was I hallucinating? I called the number back, hoping it was a nurse who had just forgotten she needed an order for pain meds, or some small matter that could be handled on the phone. But no. It was my resident.
"I'm so sorry, but the ICU needs an extra bed, so they've decided to transfer out one of their less acute patients to us on the medical floor. I need you to come do the transfer.'
Well, now that's just.so.awesome.
Probably I should've reminded myself that the night would end eventually (though at the time that seemed like an impossible dream). Probably I should've counted to ten. Probably I should have said, 'serenity now.' But instead, I wanted to scream. And If I hadn't been worried about waking up any other nearby (and very lucky) sleeping students or residents, I probably would have.
But my anger at my situation felt like a heat, radiating out of me from head to toe, and demanding release of some sort. So I picked up my dansko clog and threw it against the wall. Hard. I didn't know what else to do with my anger, so I threw it. And then I picked up the other one and threw it as well.
Yup, in case you missed that, I definitely threw my shoes at the wall. "Take that, you stupid hospital wall! That'll show you to deprive me of even a moment's rest!" Misdirected frustration, to be sure. But my options were limited. And it kind of helped.
Then I went and did my work.
In comparison, I have never, not ever, thrown anything when my children have woken up crying in the night.
Have I shaken my fist at the universe in supreme frustration at my lack of sleep during the baby phase? Many a time. But just so you know, my shoes have always remained firmly planted on the ground.
And I think that's got to count for something.
{Incidentally, upon retelling this story during residency, one of our attendings overhead. "Wait, You threw a show against the wall? Wow. I can't see you doing that." My co-resident asked, "What, but you can see one of the rest of us doing that?" Ha!
I am glad that people don't immediately get a shoe-throwing vibe off of me}.
