Healing

"...and because I like hospitals", I said, and was greeted with a bemused (and perhaps slightly concerned) look. The physical therapist I'm talking to is probably twice my weight and has a shiny bald head that's reflecting the limited light in the SICU during "nap time". He's asked me why I want to be an occupational therapist. We're waiting for an energetic, sweet, and Finnish nurse named Toula to finish caring for the patient before he and the occupational therapist I'm working with head in through the various vestibules and automatic doors.

My answer is, as usual, a mumble jumble of words about diversity and caring. I'm never really quite sure what to say, and for some reason "It's what I've wanted to do since I was 15 and no, poop doesn't bother me" doesn't quite seem like the answer people are looking for. In honesty, I've been raised to believe that care for other humans is paramount. The kindness you can do people as well as service is center stage for my parents. In fact, it might be the only thing I can think of that they find equally important. I grew up knowing I wanted a career that was rewarding, helpful but also financially stable and occupational therapy fills those requirements and another list longer than Santa's.

I spend the rest of the day bouncing around various ICUs experiencing something that seems akin to OT hazing: I read charts too many times, can't find the bathroom, can't sit down, and elevators are definitely for wusses (even when getting from the eighth floor to the second). Patients thankfully make up for my heavy bladder and my aching feet and when I leave the hospital and hit the sunshine I have a small smile on my face.