I never got a chance to finish this post. I'm posting it now, though it took place the first week of March.
It's confusing, all this. It's hard to know just exactly who is walking through the doors of the medical center sometimes. I was here a time or three with my brother. And then my dad. Sometimes at the same time. My brother died. My dad did well. So a break. Then I came here a physician in training. Saw patients who resembled both my dad and my brother.
Now it's spring break and I'm spending it here again. My dad's stem cell transplant. It's hard to know what emotion, what thought, what gut feeling goes with which experience. It's like an alcoholic training to be a bartender. It's like having to work at a cemetery where your loved ones are buried. You have to keep going back and face physical manifestations of your pain. Every day. Study the diseases that can wreak havoc. That can kill. Except it's not only a cemetery. It's the site of my dad's hope. It's where I am being trained in my profession. Evolution of a complex love-hate relationship. Confusing.