July 25th, 2005

Nescafe rabbit

Step softly here, for life is brief.

Warning: I am cutting this entry because I know someone on my reading list has recently lost a child. I don't want you to have to read it if you aren't ready.

Last call night, O Best Beloved, was one of the longest nights of my life.
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It will break your heart sometimes, being a doctor, if you are not careful. It will take the parts of your soul that are alive and hopeful and fragile with joy and it will wrap them around death and despair and strange, sourceless loss. It will rend your unprotected self, decorate you with grief, and cast you aside with the rest of the debris of life's purposeless cruelties. I awoke this morning numb and disconnected, painless and blind.
And then, O Best Beloved, I stepped into the room of my first clinic patient and saw a squealing, laughing six-month-old boy, fat with vitality, trying to eat my stethoscope, reaching out to me. And in the embrace of those chubby arms, in the black reflection of curious eyes, I saw myself stir and wake and come alive. And there is, there has always been, there will always be hope.